


Dust

by etchedbox



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Age Difference, Angst, Badass, Badass Reader, Dirty Spaceship sex, Dirty Talk, Dreams, Dreams vs. Reality, Emotions, F/M, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Masturbation, Ok nevermind this fic got lyrical, Original Character(s), Overstimulation, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rough Sex, Sex, Sexual Tension, Smut, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:54:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 79,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27765550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etchedbox/pseuds/etchedbox
Summary: An epic love story (a smutty western) in the stars; two people finding one another. You are the Pilot, and he is the Mandalorian.*Season 2 canon compliantuntilthe beginning of Chapter 14: "The Tragedy". No tracking beacon.If you're a new reader, find the reader's guidehere.Update Schedulehere.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Original Female Character(s), Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, The Mandalorian/Original Character, The Mandalorian/Original Female Character(s), The Mandalorian/Reader, The Mandalorian/You
Comments: 519
Kudos: 2200





	1. Dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The “reader” in this story is going to be a fully-fledged character with physical attributes, so it’s not a "pure" reader insert—but it's written like it. Trying something new. We’ve already got so many great fics that are pure reader-insert (like Rough Day, what deliciousness), so I wanted to try something different. I wanted to “be” a pilot in the rebellion. Seemed badass.

The bite of the sun leaves as you step into the doorway of the cantina. No one bothers to look. With almost every inch of your small frame covered, you’re not interesting or intimidating enough to hold the patrons’ attention.

“You have anything from Alderaan?” Your voice is hoarse, bone-dry like the Nevarro landscape you just trekked through.

The droid, a beat-up C5 unit that has seen better days, betrays no emotion at your request. “No.”

“I can pay.” You slam credits on the table. Too many credits. _Shiny_ credits. Heads turn.

The bartender’s metal arm pushes them back to you. “No.” You open your mouth in protest, but the droid cuts in first: “We do not carry wine from Alderaan. Not since it’s destruction in the year—”

“I get it, _shiny-face_.” Your scoff is muffled by the cloth over your mouth. You know you’re being childish but you can’t find it in yourself to care; it’s hard to care about anything after that rusty speeder decided to break down in the middle of a lava flat for the last time. You gather the credits off the counter quickly, the growing number of eyes on the back of your head making your skin prick.

“Can I buy you a drink?” The man who stands next to you at the counter has a warm voice. He’s about the same age as you, his hair laced with sun and palms streaked with grease. A local tech, you’re guessing.

You give him a few seconds before you reply curtly: “No.”

“You new around here?” Curiosity colors his voice and you decide to humor him. It’s been too long since you’ve had an actual conversation.

You tug away the cloth obscuring your face, feeling the metal kiss of the necklace as your fingers brush down your neck. “I—”

“I suspected you were pretty.” He interrupts you, smiling. A large part of you wants to cringe at his line, but you refrain. “You seemed too small to be a bounty hunter.”

He’s not your type at all. Even with dirt on his hands, this man is far too clean for your tastes. For starters, there’s trust written all over his face; you two might be near the same age, but he hasn’t seen the things you’ve seen. He hasn’t done the things you’ve done.

“So,” you say. “Are we going to talk all day or are you going to buy me that drink?”

* * *

The Mandalorian needs a pilot. It was too close a call on the last ride, too much for him to watch the fuzzy green foundling and guide the Razor Crest through a crowded debris field. Having Imps in hot pursuit never helped either.

Mando fingers the pucks tucked in his belt, counting them yet again. Five pucks, all the highest bounties Greef Karga could offer during this stop in Nevarro. Mando didn’t want to resort to bounty hunting again, but with his credits this low and the Kid around there was no other option. It all felt too familiar, but meeting Karga in an office instead of the cantina was strange. Things had changed around here.

For this next run, Mando needs a pilot.

The Child doesn’t notice his father’s concern. Blissfully upbeat as always, the Child babbles as Mando cradles him in the crook of his broad arm. “I know, Kid.” The Child coos in response, unaware of how Mando’s baritone softens just for him. “I know.”

Many would argue that the cantina—though the planet was far more respectable now than ever before—was no place for a child. But wherever the Mandalorian went…

Mando steps through the door, and every living being in the cantina turns to clock him. It’s a moment frozen in time, a snapshot of awe before a ripple of fear shivers through the building. Mando hesitates before approaching the counter. The bartender is a droid.

A sentence wouldn’t hurt. “I was told I would find a pilot here.”

The machine stares at him with its beady eyes. “Pilot?”

“A small…” Mando’s voice trails off. Karga hadn’t given him much to go on. “A pilot.”

“Oh. If you’re talking about her…” The droid goes back to polishing a glass so streaked with dust that Mando doesn’t know why _it_ bothers. “She’s out back.”

Out back? The Mandalorian looks down at the Child, who is still fussing in his arms. She? He remembers Karga’s office, where the big man had bellowed out the pilot’s description: “The best pilot in Nevarro right now. Small… flew for the rebellion. Been living on the fringes of the city for the last few months. Very capable, but a bit rough around the edg— you know what? You two will get along just fine.”

The Child coos again.

“I know, Kid,” Mando repeats. He lets the Child play with the tips his gloved fingers. “It won’t be long now.”

* * *

“What did you want to show me?” Your voice is blurred from the drink—the drinks—the man had bought you. It hadn’t taken him long to invite you out back. You lean against the wall, waiting.

The man stands near you but not close enough, shoving his hands into his pockets. He’s much taller than you, but you both know who has the power here. “I—” The man scratches at the back of his head, toying with his shaggy hair. “I—"

It takes all of your good will not to let out a groan of frustration. During the rebellion, everything had been urgent; people never wasted time on coyness. _But the rebellion is over,_ you remind yourself. That’s why you were on a scummy Outer Rim planet like Nevarro in the first place. You look at the man. He’s still weighing his options as if they were some intricate life or death situation. The man takes a step forward—finally, when—

You hear it.

The echo of heavy footsteps to your side. Your face turns whip-fast on instinct as a _Mandalorian_ of all things in the galaxy steps out the backdoor of the cantina, his shiny helmet turning towards you. His beskar armor glints silver in the sunlight, nearly untainted by the dust and dirt of this place. You stare up at his dark visor as he towers above you, and you wonder whether he’s there for your companion or… you.

Your companion—or whatever he’s been reduced to now—visibly quakes in the presence of the Mandalorian and the long pulse rifle strapped to the hunter’s back. The man steps quickly away from the both of you, his gaze ducked. The bounty hunter’s figure would be intimidating even without the armor; you can tell his frame is naturally tall and broad, but wearing the beskar he feels impossibly so. Unbreakable. A warrior of the ancient world.

The Mandalorian's cape billows with the next gust of wind that tunnels through the alley.

Despite yourself and all the things you’ve faced, you feel it too. The shimmer of fear. From all the stories you’ve read as a child, from the stories you still hear in rundown cantinas time and time again. You eye the blaster at the hunter’s hip. If the Mandalorian is hunting you, there would be no running.

“Can I help you?” You will your voice not to tremble as you spill your question.

The Mandalorian pauses, the cold steel of his helmet completely unreadable. “I’m looking for a pilot.” His voice is deep and steady through the modulator. 

Your companion starts to stammer. “I—I can fly—”

“You’re looking for me.” You try to find the warrior’s eyes through the visor; the confidence in your own tone surprises you. “I’m the pilot you’re looking for.”

After a few moments, the Mandalorian seems to accept this. He takes an audible breath which crackles pleasantly in your ears. “Then let’s speak in private.”

“I’ll just—” Your companion shuffles from foot to foot. He looks up at the Mandalorian as if to say something, but his body locks up in fear before he can. The helmet tilts and turns subtly towards the gaping mouth of the alley—go—and before you know it, the other man is running, eager to scamper away. You watch him leave without regret.

Well at least now you were in private.

“Do you have a ship?” You don’t want to sound too eager, but the mere thought of it—the possibility of finally getting off this planet—is dizzying.

“I do. She’s not much.”

“It’ll do.” You nod. _As long as it flies._

“Don’t you want to know the details?”

“Let me guess. Bounty hunter.” You push away from the wall, your arms crossing over your chest as if that’ll protect you. “Want me to pilot your ship while you go and catch the bad ones?”

The Mandalorian shifts and for the first time you notice how his arm is bent, almost like he’s shielding his satchel from your direct line of sight. The beskar helmet tilts down and back towards the tiny green being rocking in the bag. “Settle down, Kid.”

“Is that…” You shake your head. This must be a dream. “Is that a pet? Or a… baby?”

The Mandalorian doesn’t reply. Finally—slowly—he reaches into the bag, scooping the wrinkly baby up to rest on a thick forearm. “He’s part of the deal. My foundling.” You peek at the Child, only to see the edge of a large, fuzzy, green, ear. _Was that what was under the helmet?_ “I need to pick up a few bounties on the Outer Rim, and I need someone to help pilot the Crest. It won't take more than a few weeks. I’ll give you a handsome cut—”

“Done.” Credits didn’t concern you. You shake your head again. “Can I… Can I see him?”

There is complete stillness before the bounty hunter finally nods. And then, because you don’t move, he steps closer for you to see the baby. “This is the Child.”

The Child is adorable. Every maternal instinct you’ve jammed down deep inside of you flares back into existence at the sight of him, his big black eyes and large floppy ears almost compelling a girlish “aw” to slip from your mouth— _almost_. You swallow the sound, urging yourself to adopt the Mandalorian’s speech patterns, his dryness and brevity. “I see.” The Child reaches for you and you step back, your skin prickling as you notice the Mandalorian’s helmet tilting down again, this time to study your expression. The bottom of your stomach feels like Bespin Fizz. If the stories are true, then why does this Mandalorian cradle a Child tenderly?

“Let’s meet when the sun rises tomorrow.” The Mandalorian's low voice nudges you out of your stupor. “You’ll know the ship when you see it. Pre-Empire. Pack light.” The bounty hunter turns and leaves, the large rifle still strapped across his back. His cape swirls behind him, his stride sure and steady as he moves further away.

“Wait,” you call out. “I don’t even know your name.”

He hesitates only for a second before walking on, not even gracing you with a reply. You cross your arms again, displeased with the lack of detail. Not even a name. It occurs to you that he hasn’t asked for yours either. _So that’s how it’s going to be…_ As you watch him leave, all you can think about is the stars, the streaks of light painted across the darkness as you make the jump to hyperspace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> etchedbox.tumblr.com


	2. Attention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: pining and masturbation, an overload of sexual tension & frustration, dirty thoughts on everybody's behalf.

You think about his voice as you touch yourself that night.

It’s not something you anticipate. It’s an intrusion of a thought, a sudden flood of memory as your body remembers the sensation of standing so close to a _Mandalorian_. It was fear. But it was also _excitement_ , years of unspent adrenaline coursing through your veins all in one instant. And his voice… Maker, you liked the low baritone of it, so deep it thunders across your chest when he speaks.

The hand between your legs freezes. Your heavy breaths ring out in the tiny, rented, room as you try to calm yourself—

You wonder what he’ll be like. As an employer, of course. You know he’s quiet, but how much of that was an act you can’t gage. _You shouldn’t even be thinking of him._ The Mandalorian refuses to leave your mind, and so you refuse to keep going, tearing your hand away from your body, your jaw clenching tightly when it takes more even willpower than you expect. The lower half of you is wound with disappointment, your arousal festering the more you try to deny it. That’s the second time today you’ve been left high and dry, though you doubt the stranger from the cantina would’ve given you what you’re looking for—what you needed—had things been allowed to… proceed.

You roll over onto your tummy to lessen the temptation of sliding your hand back exactly where you want it. You’re not going to think about your (future) employer like this—you’re not. You don’t know anything about him and his people; you’ve only heard the stories, but that’s all they’ve ever felt like—stories.

Tonight, you had tried your best to gather whatever information on the mysterious bounty hunter floated around Nevarro. All you got was a patchwork of a ludicrous backstory that confounded you deeply. _A Mandalorian who could fight off twenty men…_ You scoff. _The Guild… The Child…_ You had expected some useful intel, just a tiny inkling that could shed light on the contradiction of _him_ : a fighter clad in beskar cradling a baby. Instead your head was filled with useless hearsay and dizzy with cheap brandy. _There has to be more._ You wonder how he lives, how he fights, how he fucks—

You stop yourself from thinking of it again, your breaths still coming in desperate, little, pants despite your best efforts. _Fuck_ , you had been close before he popped into your head like that. You need a release so badly you could burst, and truthfully, you don’t even remember what you had been imagining prior to him. Pressing your cheek to the cool bedsheet, you think it must be the way he moves—besides his voice, of course. You’ve spent so much of your short life among the stars that you’re more familiar with how ships cut through air than how people move.

The Mandalorian could be green under the helmet and you wouldn’t know. Or he could be human, like you. But there’s something different about the way he walks, the swagger of his stride under the weight of all that beskar steel that constantly reminds you of what he is _._ _A warrior._

You shut your eyes, trying to catch a few hours of sleep before the sun rises.

* * *

Mando wakes in complete darkness. The Kid is still asleep, but it won’t be long now until the Pilot arrives. He wasn’t prepared for her yesterday, a situation for which he entirely blames Karga. When he found her in the back-alley of that blasted cantina, Mando had expected someone quite different. He remembers the cowering mess of a boy who stood by her, but mostly he remembers the determination in the Pilot’s eyes.

_You’re looking for me._ Mando struggles in recalling all the finer details from yesterday, the sharp planes of her face or the olive color of her skin; he wants to figure out the exact reason why he’s so taken by her. _The necklace._ There was that choker he glimpsed, flush to her slim neck and almost completely obscured by a worn scarf. It was made of a delicate metal, something that clearly had no place on the Outer Rim.

Mando feels blindly for the panel on the cot’s side, wincing as the tight muscles in his back stretch after another night in the cramped space. As the bright light of the Crest’s hold hits him, the bounty hunter studies the scars that litter his arms—some still raised and angry, others fading into pale slivers. He’s very careful, extremely quiet as he shuts the door and dons his armor. He shouldn’t wake the Child.

When he lowers the ramp, the Pilot’s already waiting.

There’s barely enough light in the sky for Mando to make out the outline of her, but through the visor he can see that she carries a small pack. There’s a blaster pistol strapped to her right thigh. _That_ wasn’t there yesterday.

“Mando.” The Pilot walks up the ramp without his invitation. “I asked around about you last night.”

He pauses. He probably should have done the same for her, but he trusted Karga’s word on this. “And what did you hear?”

“That they call you Mando. And I heard about the Guild, the Child, how you’re good at killing…” Her voice trails off as she slides the pack off her shoulder. “But mostly I heard your ship was a piece of junk.” She dumps her pack unceremoniously on the ground. “Which I said I would be the judge of.”

She starts surveying the inside of the Crest. Most people keep their eyes on him at all times, forever wary of his reputation and the danger he presents; the Pilot doesn’t look at him at all.

When the Mandalorian offers her no reply, the Pilot doesn’t waste her time. Before Mando can stop her, she’s moving through the hold of the Crest, pressing buttons and opening panels. A few random doors swing open, battering loudly against the sides of the metal ship. “Hey.” His voice comes out sterner than he wants it to, and he’s springing into motion after her, deactivating the buttons she’s pressed, following the trail of chaos the Pilot leaves in her wake. She’s been on the Crest less than a minute and she’s already encroaching on his life—on his solitude. “Girl—"

She ignores him completely. Muttering to herself, the Pilot also ignores his weapons cabinet, the fresher and the small cot, opting to clamber up the ladder to the cockpit. “Hey!” Mando reaches up to stop her, but she’s unusually fast. His gloved fingers miss her ankle, slipping past it to fasten onto a hard metal rung. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m doing my job.” She doesn’t glance back as he climbs up after her. She’s too occupied with flipping more switches, not even bothering to hide her disdain when she hears the initial rumble of the engine. Her fingers are nimble, moving impossibly fast across the mechanical dashboard and only pausing intermittently to push the dark hair away from her eyes. “You do know you don’t _actually_ don’t need an extra pilot to fly this thing, right? I’ve never even touched one of these pre-Imperial ships before. With the credits you’re offering, you could buy a droid, a nice R2 unit—”

“No droids,” Mando says pointedly. He doesn’t like how easily she slides into the pilot’s chair—how comfortable she looks. It’s _his_ space. She turns the chair, staring up at him with her bright eyes.

“They also mentioned that you had a… droid thing.” He can’t believe the Pilot’s already working to undermine his authority. “I have news for you though, Mando. Your ship _is_ a piece of junk.”

“I just got her repaired.“

“Well—” And then the Pilot _shrugs._ Shrugs, like Mando’s ship—the _Razor Crest—_ is some throwaway piece of scrap metal she found foraging in a deadbeat junkyard. “It’s not what’s on the outside that matters. The engine and the hyperdrive—don’t get me started. I haven’t even taken a good look and I can already tell that it’s not—”

“Enough.” He’s heard this all before.

She looks around, pausing when she notices the metal ball on top of one the levers is missing. She stares at it, cocking her head, but she doesn’t stop talking. “I’ll work on it,” she finishes. “While you’re out doing what you do. I’m not a mechanic or a miracle maker, but your ship can use a look.” She stares up at him again.

He waits for her to ask for more of the cut, but the request never comes. After a few moments, he realizes it isn’t coming. In his world, one that’s dictated by cold transactions and mercenaries, her silence is confusing. She’s just waiting for his reply.

“Alright,” he agrees.

She chews her lip and looks away. “Is the Child asleep?” Her voice is quiet when she asks about the Kid.

He nods.

They stay in a comfortable silence, her sitting and him standing. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, offering him a small smile. It’s kinder than anything else she’s done so far, and though he doesn’t want to admit that he’s noticed… the Mandalorian knows the Pilot is pretty. Beautiful, even. A defined jawline, her face shaped like a heart; her bright eyes blink up at him, the juxtaposition of passion and innocence infinitely jarring. _Tempting._ He _is_ curious. There are so many questions Mando wants to ask her. Where she’s from—why she’s on Nevarro when she looks like _that_ —what she was doing with that boy yesterday. He settles on the most harmless question he can think of: “How old are you?”

She starts at this, but recovers well. He memorizes the look on her face, the flash of uncertainty in her eyes before she hides it. “Twenty-five.” She doesn’t ask how old he is.

_So young._ Mando wouldn’t have guessed that from the way the Pilot carries herself. He counts the years back to the start of the rebellion. “You were young when you flew in the rebellion.” She doesn’t reply, doesn’t move. He regrets saying anything at all. “What did you do?”

“I was in a starfighter squadron.” She doesn’t hesitate to answer this time. There’s a weight to her response, a strange heaviness. Mando had guessed that she was a cargo pilot, or that she was on the crew of some giant command ship—not that she was in a starfighter squadron. But now that she’s said it, it fits. The fierceness in her eyes, the determination. The calmness and the nonchalance—the scrappiness. The false arrogance that she uses like a shield. It all _fits_. Now, Mando can’t picture her as anything else.

He also can’t think of a reply, but she cracks another smile. “Bet you weren’t expecting that.”

He wasn’t, and he wonders whether she can tell by the way he stiffens like a cornered creature. He feels a retort on the edge of his tongue, sharp and barbed—

—but the Pilot’s already spinning away from him, fiddling with the numerous knobs and levers on the dashboard.

She doesn’t turn around again.

At his side, Mando’s fist clenches. He turns and leaves her in the cockpit.

* * *

You both fall into a routine faster than you anticipate, working side by side or sitting in the cockpit from time to time. Mostly, though, you avoid each other like two orbiting planets on opposite ends of a system. It turns out that the whole “quiet-and-brooding-silent-warrior” thing wasn’t just an act of his. You’re two weeks into working with the Mandalorian and there’s no more small talk—no more questions—and certainly no more banter. Sometimes you sense his frustration even though you can’t think of what you did to possibly earn it. Maybe it was the teasing on that first day… Maybe the Mandalorian is particularly sensitive about his ship. Even though it’s almost falling apart, the Razor Crest _is_ classic—a ship with real character. You liked it. If you were being honest, you even admired his dedication to the Crest. Something about it felt so timeless. _Like him._

Maybe the Mandalorian didn’t understand these sentiments of yours. Guilt over your words on the first day constantly stings at the edge of your consciousness, and you wonder if it would be weird to apologize now, to say something to him about it—

You feel something grab your leg.

“Oh hey there, Kid.” You stop looking at the panel you’re working on and stoop to pick up the Kid who’s hugging your leg with his little green arms. “What do you want?” You stare down at him and grin when he smiles back. You can’t help it. The Kid has a way of lightening your heart, even with all the tension that simmers between you and Mando. The Kid doesn’t know about it, and if he feels it, he certainly doesn’t care.

“Thought he was still in his seat, but he disappeared.” The Mandalorian’s gruff voice makes you jump. For someone so big and metal, he moves around the ship like a ghost so stealthy that you can never tell when he’s right behind you. “He wants attention today.”

“Do you now?” The Kid babbles in reply and holds up the little metal ball from his favorite lever to show you. “And Mando wasn’t giving you attention?”

“What did I say about taking that out of the cockpit?” Annoyed, Mando steps closer to grab the ball out of the Kid’s fingers. The instant the ball leaves his hands, the Child’s face falls, his big eyes narrowing—

“Oh, come on.” You pluck the ball back from Mando’s gloved hand before he can stop you. “He’s just a kid.” You smile down at the tiny creature in your arms as you return the ball to him, ignoring how his father’s spine stiffens. _He’s so tall_ ; Mando always makes you feel tiny without even trying. Concentrating your energy on the Kid instead, you twist your features into a silly face, earning a giggle.

Mando just stands there. Your heart is racing—pounding in your chest—and you’re terrified, utterly anxious that he has some kind of sensor in his helmet that can _see_ that. Even if not, you’re positive that the goosebumps that erupted on your skin at his proximity are visible, dotting your bare arms and neck. You’re not scared of the Mandalorian anymore but his presence still makes you nervous, sending your stomach into a flutter. You don’t want to give a name to that. Not yet.

“What are you working on?”

It’s the first question the Mandalorian has asked you in weeks, the first acknowledgement of all the tinkering you’ve done on the ship since you’ve boarded. “Uh—just…” You struggle to gesture at the panel with the Kid in your arms. You’ve pulled out the metal covering and there’s a whole mess of wires showing. _Not the best look._ “I’m making it better, I swear.”

“I know.” The helmet tilts down.

All he had to say were two words in that low voice— _I know—_ not even a straightforward acknowledgement—and you’re floundering. You were always a sucker for praise. For someone who prided yourself on keeping cool during missions, you’re a flustered mess now. “I… I’ve got some things working at almost maximum capacity, but you’re not going to get it all the way there without replacement parts. This—what I’m doing now—is just so you don’t get a delay when you’re opening—” You trail on, just _knowing_ that Mando’s eyes haven’t left your face. You don’t know how, but you feel his gaze on you, heavy like his armor. To make matters worse, you can feel the blush creeping across your cheeks. _Just keep talking._ “—I’m just having trouble with—”

All of the sudden, Mando reaches towards you. You flinch.

“Sorry,” he says. “The Kid.”

You look down to see the green baby asleep in your arms, ears twitching and mouth opening with his adorable snores. “Oh.” The bounty hunter takes the Child from you with one arm. You watch as Mando turns and takes the Child to the cot, tenderly resting the baby in his little swing.

_You’re staring._ You turn back to the panel quickly, the focus of your vision still adjusting as you stare down at the wires. _What were you doing again?_ The lights of the Crest dim for the Kid’s nap. _Why are your palms so sweaty?_ You’ve already ripped the tech jumpsuit you’re wearing off your shoulders, and you reach down to wipe your hands before studying the wires again. It was a difficult task before, but with everything that’s happened (and nothing’s happened, really)—it now feels impossible.

“What are you having trouble with?” Mando’s beside you, reaching up to rest a gauntlet on the wall of the ship, unintentionally caging you in as he stoops to try and get a better look at the wires you’re handling.

“Just…” Not daring to glance over at him, you hold up the wires. “Just a really delicate set. I don’t have enough hands. If I was an Ardennian this would be easier.” It was supposed to be a joke, but you hear a quick rip of velcro and the slide of leather—

And then… his hands are in your line of vision. Ungloved hands. _Real_ hands. _His_ real hands.

They’re large and scarred, thick fingers with the nails cut short, but they’re _human._ “How can I help?” His voice is softer because he’s so close to you, and you think you can hear two layers to it: the mechanical modulated baritone, and just maybe (or maybe it’s your imagination) you can hear his very own breaths. You try not to shiver. It’s the first time you’ve seen any of his skin, _ever,_ and the tone of it is strikingly warm, only a minute shade darker than your own—

_You’re staring again._ You still refuse to look at his helmet, but you manage to swallow your surprise. “If you could hold these right here. I need to fuse them.“

“Okay.”

“Here.“ You hand him the wires, your fingers brushing his for a second. You take a deep breath. _Keep it together._ “Ready?”

“Ready.” True to his word, he stays still as a statue as you start fusing the wires, his hands looking comically large as you start to work. You squint and roll out your stiff neck.

The both of you stay like that, silently working. But you’ve never been this close, never worked _together_ like this. You breathe in deeply, exhaling as you try to steady yourself.

It's so incredibly dim in the Crest’s hold. Only the electric sparks from your tools cast intermittent flickers of light on your face, on his hands, only the intermittent buzzing breaks the silence. When you finally find your focus everything else but you and the Mandalorian seems to melt away. Not only that—all the anger, all the frustration you and him have felt about invading each other’s space—it all seems to vanish like it was never real in the first place.

You can’t hear his real breaths, you decide. They’re still modulated, but you’re so aware of the rise and fall of his armored chest, the movement only inches away from your bare shoulder. Even with all that cold beskar steel shrouding him, you can feel the heat of his body and _see_ the hair on his hands, wonderfully dark and rich. _You want to kiss them_. It’s silly, and so you bite back the thought. You’re trying your hardest to not let the tremble in your own hands show, trying so hard not to think of him in the way you were the night before you boarded his ship.

You don’t know when Mando starts looking at you again, but it happens. You sense the minuscule shifts in his gaze; you feel his eyes on your face once more, on your neck, on your bare shoulders. Your blush deepens, and you hope he thinks it’s the heat. You would simply die if he knew he did this to you, made you blush with such a tiny sliver of his skin. Two weeks on this ship and you’re so pent up, so desperate for his attention that you're like the Kid. You move your legs, feeling the arousal pool between them—

“Done,” you say. You pull away from the panel and he drops the wires. They’re fused, and you test them; even when you yank lightly with a finger, they refuse to come apart. “Looks solid.” You grin and give his helmet a quick nod. It’s the first time you’ve mustered the courage to look at him straight since he put the Kid to sleep.

“Good job.” He tests the wires too, and you take the opportunity to ogle his hands again.

“No, thank you.” Your voice is shamelessly breathy. You look down to avoid the helmet and shake your head. Your hair falls in your eyes. _Why are you so dizzy?_ “Thank you for helping, it made it a lot easier to manage—” Before you finish your sentence, you’re reaching up to brush your hair back.

Mando beats you to it.

His big hand comes up to tuck the hair behind your ear, and you _freeze._

_Maker, did he just… Did he…_

You stare up at him, the both of you suspended in that precious moment for what feels like forever. His rough fingertips, warm flesh and blood, rest on the side of your neck.

You wait.

He steps back first, retracting his hand as if from a hot flame. You bite your lip as he tightens the same hand into a fist, promptly yanking his gloves free from his belt where he tucked them.

Mando turns and walks away from you, striding towards the ladder to the cockpit. Your heart drops and you think he’s just going to just leave you again, leave you in this silence you’ve been living in—

But he speaks. “I’ll be in the cockpit.” His voice sounds different. Strained. Even under the helmet. Even though the modulator. “Let me know if…” He stops talking then, letting his words blend into the hum of the Crest’s engine, into hyperspace. He starts to climb.

“Sure,” you say, but the Mandalorian is already gone.

* * *

The Girl and the Kid are sound asleep by the time Mando locks himself in the fresher that night. She’s taken to sleeping in the cockpit most nights, her small figure curled up with a blanket in the chair of her choice.

She’s been driving him mad the past few weeks. It’s not one thing or the other, but everything combined: the way she flies, calm and confident, eyes bright and brimming with excitement as she moves the Crest through the stars; the care in the work she does fixing the ship, chewing her lip raw as she concentrates on delicate wiring; the way she cares for the Kid, her expression softening as she cradles the baby. Mando didn’t expect any of it. The sum of it is maddening. Mando’s certain he’s never been jealous of an inanimate object (especially one in the state of the Razor Crest) or his own son before, but he is now. The Mandalorian craves the Girl, her looks and smiles, her attention—her laugh when the Kid does something cute.

The Girl’s hair is actually an incredibly dark brown, not black like Mando initially thought. He knows this because he’s spent hours staring at the back of her head, memorizing the curve of her shoulder and the graceful bend of her neck while she flies. She’s none the wiser. It’s one of the few times Mando’s been completely thankful for the helmet, if only so she doesn’t know how much time he spends just… staring. Mando’s a man, yes, but he’s ashamed of how many times he’s pictured her naked in the past day—or in the past hour. It’s getting ridiculous how easily he slides into that headspace, letting the lust grip him. He’ll come down the hatch and see her on all fours tightening a screw and— _yeah,_ he’s pictured it again. _And again._ It drives him mad that he doesn’t know.He doesn't know any of the finer details, and it's killing him. 

He doesn’t know much about her at all.

He doesn’t even know her name. He didn’t bother to ask, and like so many others on the Outer Rim, she didn’t offer it. Names have never been important to Mando, at least in casual business exchanges. Because he never offers his own, because he keeps it to himself, he’s gotten used to assigning random pronouns to people like they’re objects passing through his fingers. _The Kid. The Pilot—_ no— _The Girl._

The singular mystery that’s been driving Mando wild with desire isn’t anything visual. She’s a good-looking girl, no one was denying that, but… Mando can’t get enough of how she smells. Before, in the absence of her presence, when he took off his helmet he was greeted by the stale chemical tang of recycled air, same as on most ships. But now the scent of her lingers everywhere. It greets him in the darkness when he wakes in his cot, and it’s the first thing that hits him when he takes off the helmet after a long day. It’s like sitting in a field of flowers, or smoking so much spice that his head spins with it. It’s delicious and _diluted_ —just a trace of her—not even close to the potent fragrance it could be if he pressed his nose right into her bare skin. The possibility of it makes Mando’s mouth water. He’s never without her, not truly, never able to stop thinking, wondering, imagining—even when they’re in separate spaces. She stays with him. What would she look like bent over for him? What would she smell like? How would she _taste_?

The Girl had never done anything to hint that she wanted him too—not until today. He made note of the spark of desire in her eyes after he brushed her hair back. So when Mando locks himself away in the fresher and takes off his helmet, he knows what he’s about to do again. Especially after their interaction today, if Mando doesn’t take care of himself, he’ll be distracted tomorrow. Or more distracted than he already is. She’s driving _him_ —a Mandalorian, a _warrior_ bound to an ancient, religious, creed—to distraction. And that won’t do.

He looks downwards, studying his own hands—she did seem to like those. His knuckles have lost their color from how tightly he’s gripping the sink. Usually (which is more often now she’s here), Mando would make quick work of his sexual needs. He would barely strip off the armor, barely take a second longer than required. Since she’s filled his head with these thoughts, however, he’s hungry for all the time in the world—time he doesn’t have. Already free from his armor, he tears off his shirt, and leans against the metal wall, keeping as quiet as he can. It’s a small fresher and sounds in this ship echo.

The Mandalorian gives his cock a good squeeze through the thick fabric of his pants, holding back a moan and waiting. _She_ would tease him. _She_ would make him wait. It’s all the both of them do now, he thinks. All their fleeting looks through long lashes and beskar, all the missed opportunities disappearing into the vacuous silence of space. There’s so much he wants to do with her—he’s never been shy about how adventurous his sexual tastes run—but for now just the thought of _having her_ , of having her warm, wanting—waiting for him—is enough to drive him to unbuckle his belt.

_“Fuck,_ ” he hisses, running the rough pads of his fingers up and down his length. Mando wraps a loose fist around his cock, smearing the shiny bead of his precum around the throbbing head with a thumb. His wrist moves lazily, slowly, and he pictures the Girl’s hand in the place of his—smaller and softer. She’s sunken under his skin, and the thoughts he lives with all day only burnish brighter within his imagination. He exhales softly through his nose, shutting his eyes, welcoming the blank canvas of his eyelids.

He’s imagining the Girl looking up at him from her knees, her pretty eyes latched onto his as he fucks her mouth. He’s thinking about how her face would look as she struggled to take him everywhere— _if she could handle the size of him_. It’s all depraved: his thoughts; the slow, steady, motion of his hand; the way he's locked in the fresher thinking of her while she’s asleep in the cockpit, none the wiser to how he feels. Mando pictures the goosebumps on the Girl’s perfectly smooth skin today, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he flatters himself, his chest swelling as he remembers that _he did that to her._ He lurches further into his own hand at the thought, whispering: “Oh, fuck…”

Mando’s free hand leaves the sink, combing through his the loose locks of his brown hair before tugging. The sharp pain of it grounds him. He loves how soft _her_ hair is, and he wants to use it to play with her, to defile her, to pull her backwards as he sinks into her heat. Leaving his hair, the hand slides down to grasp the back of his muscled neck, trailing down his chest, his fingers trickling down the hard ridges of his stomach. What would the Girl do if he touched her? The hand on his cock stills, squeezing the base of it, his grip tightening as he resumes his strokes—slower… then faster, then slower again. _He’s already so close._ Stilling, he cups his balls as remembers the softness of her skin from today, the pulse in her neck beating a memory into his fingertips. And though he promised himself he would be quiet, Mando’s mouth drops open, his own sharp, quick, desperate, pants echoing out in the fresher, his head titling back to crash against the wall—

The Kid bawls in the next second, loud and clear.

Mando stops abruptly, hitting a fist on the side of the sink in frustration before tucking himself back into his trousers. _Fuck._ There’s a tremble in the walls of the ship as he hears the Girl awaken and dart down the ladder. _Fast._

As he hurriedly dons his shirt and helmet, Mando hears her muffled voice as the Girl calms his son. “Mando?”

“I’m here.” He opens the fresher door, almost bumping right into her as she waits outside.

“Is—Is he ok?” The Child is quiet now, twitching in her arms, eyes closed. Back asleep. The Girl stares up at him, completely oblivious to Mando’s actions.

“Yes.” He steps even closer to look at the Kid, relishing how she inhales as he shifts closer. “The Kid has bad dreams sometimes.”

She nods. “Ok. I was just worried.” She holds the Kid tighter against her chest, a blanket still wrapped around her shoulders. “I’ll… put him back.”Mando watches as she deposits the child back in the swing. It’s the most vulnerable Mando’s seen her; her hair is messy with sleep, strewn across her face with disarming innocence.

“You should sleep in the cot,” he tells her. “It’s more comfortable.”

“I’m okay, really—”

“Take it. I'm not tired yet.”

“No, it’s fine.”

He doesn’t understand. “You can’t sleep in a chair every night.”

“It’s ok.” She smiles, and her voice is still drowsy when she pipes up again. “If I sleep in the cot, you can’t. And if we take turns, then...” _I can't see you._ She doesn't finish the thought, but he knows.

His throat swells at her words, and he’s struck dumb. It’s like he can’t move—like he can’t even refuse the cot after that. The Girl smiles again and moves past him, towards the ladder.

“Goodnight, sweet girl.” He says it softly, almost like he’s afraid of her hearing. But she does hear, and she turns to him.

Mando allows himself to reach up, to brush the hair away from her face again. This time he does it slowly, enjoying the feel of her smooth skin against his bare hand. And ever so slowly, she turns her face into his palm, pressing her lips gently to his calloused skin. 

His only response is to stroke a thumb across her lips, his breath hitching.

“Goodnight, Mando,” she whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> etchedbox.tumblr.com


	3. Once Upon a Time in Tatooine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the comments and kudos! blushing blushing blushing about this chapter.
> 
> warnings: very smutty, oral sex (fem receiving), some mild violence, creds to fishtank for inspiration for the boy line

“Do you know how to use it?”

The Razor Crest is dropping out of hyperspace when Mando asks you this, his voice blurring with the bass of the ship’s thrusters. He’d been so quiet for so long that you almost forgot he was there. The Kid squirms in his lap, babbling.

You don’t feel like that question justifies a reply, so you don’t answer. _Of course you knew how to pilot the ship._

It has been days since you bumped into him outside the fresher. It still feels like a dream, and even now— even though he’s touched your face _twice_ and you basically _kissed his hand—_ you can’t bring yourself to believe it really happened. He hasn’t mentioned it and neither have you, so you’re both just… carrying on.

“I meant your blaster,” he finally clarifies.

You flick a few switches that don’t really need to be touched, steering the Crest towards Tatooine with feigned concentration. This is a landing you could pull off in your sleep, but the topic of your blaster is awkward. _Everything_ this past week has been awkward. “Um… Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

“The size feels excessive.” His voice is calm. “For someone like you.”

“And your rifle isn’t?” You haven’t actually seen him _use_ the pulse rifle, but it’s always with him when he leaves, slung across his broad back as he walks away. The closest thing you’ve witnessed to a fight in these last couple of weeks was Mando hauling a single bounty up the ramp; and no offense, but it didn’t seem like Mando needed an Amban phase-pulse blaster to deal with _that_ guy.

Mando exhales slowly, breath catching through the modulator. “… Bounty Hunter.”

“Still,” you retort. “It lets targets see you coming from light-years away.”

“… Beskar armor.” _Alright, the rifle didn’t really matter._ He was pretty reflective as it was. “I can blend in when I want to.” The Kid babbles. “But you still haven’t explained.“

Your hands hover over the controls. “My blaster was my father’s.”

"So it was a gift?” When he asks, you wonder if that's common in Mandalorian culture, to give weapons as gifts.

“No.” You’re still pretending to pilot the ship with a performative intensity. “I stole it from him.” There’s a rustle of material as Mando shifts in his seat. “When I ran away from home.”

Mando doesn’t reply for a while. You think he’s silently judging you, but when he speaks again there’s a hint of amusement tangled in his baritone. “Bet he missed it.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” _Cryptic._ You’re being cryptic, but it’s not exactly like Mando’s an open book either. It’s not that you actively want him to know about your past, but you’re baiting him and Mando knows it.

He bites. “Why not?”

“Well…” In your own ears, your voice sounds level—emotionless—even if you do feel it. It’s there, the ache buried under everything that’s happened since you ran away from home as a teenager to fly for the rebellion like a fool. But a fool who’s alive. “Home was Alderaan.”

Mando pauses. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Not your fault.” Honestly, you’re impressed by how distant you sound. This was usually something that spilled from your lips after a few too many drinks in a backwater cantina on the latest planet you fancied stranding yourself upon. But here, in the cockpit of the Crest, you could breathe out your past and push it away all at once. You couldn’t see Mando’s face, and he couldn’t see yours. “Listen, I need to get some personal supplies on Tatooine. We can split up.”

“Stick with me,” he replies. You finally turn to look at him, but you’re greeted with the same dark T-visor, the same cold metal helmet. “At least where we’re going."

“What about the Kid?”

“You’ll see.”

You know that’s all you’re going to get from him, so you don’t fight it. “Do you mind taking the ship to surface? I should change.” Even if you can’t read his thoughts or see his face, you’ll know he’ll agree. He’s a good pilot. It grates on you how quick he is, how fast his reflexes are under any kind of pressure. _Bounty hunter._

“Take your time.” Mando stands, the Kid still on his hip, and you rise from your seat in turn. In the cramped space of the cockpit, you’re forced to twist around the bounty hunter’s large frame to get to the hatch. He moves his shoulder back to let you pass, and as you do… you feel the tips of his gloved fingers brush your hip, catching lightly on the hem of your shirt.

His touch leaves you as quickly as it happens.

You don’t respond. The Kid watches you with big eyes as you lower yourself down the hatch with shaky knees; the baby’s probably wondering why you’re blushed red like a sun. _Okay… so maybe you lied._ Mando and you certainly hadn’t _spoken_ about what happened, but things… things were definitely different now.

Mando _touches_ you now, from time to time, when before his efforts to keep out of your personal space were clear as crystal. He hasn’t touched your hair (though you think he might still want to), but he’ll nudge your knee with his (for a fleeting second), or he’ll let his fingers hover up your arm or linger on your hip—like just now.

It’s not even his skin on yours. He still wears his gloves most of the time he’s around you, but the fact that he’s even _making contact_ in the first place drives you insane.

He doesn’t ask your permission. The touches have been so slight that they almost feel like mistakes. _Almost._ But it’s enough to make you pause in the hull of the Crest, still enough for you to lean your forehead against the cool metal wall and take a deep breath. You thought you were imagining it, but he’s been reaching for you consistently, nonchalantly… casually leaving traces of himself all over your body. It’s achingly deliberate. Under all the beskar, all the layers of steel and cloth—Mando _wants you too._

Maker... It's actually irritating how much control he has, how masterfully he’s manipulating your physical reaction to him at this point. You feel like you’re malfunctioning, your circuits shorting every time he nears. Between the discipline of you both, it’s become a battle of wills with Mando enjoying testing the razor-thin edge of his restraint—and yours.

_Still_ , you think, it’s banthashit. If he didn’t let up soon, you were going to die a slow, agonizing death by a thousand cuts (or a thousand touches). Or you could just spontaneously combust the next time he reaches for you. Maybe _that_ would change things.

You’re so wrapped up in your thoughts that you barely feel the ship land. It’s only when the Mandalorian graces you with his presence in the hull that you snap out of it, shoulders tensing as you glance up at him. The Child is in his floating crib. Mando picks up his rifle but doesn’t acknowledge you, and he definitely doesn’t acknowledge that he’s wrecked you with a careless brush of his gloved fingertips.

He just says one thing: “Her name’s Peli. Peli Motto.”

_Peli?_ Before you can ask aloud, the ramp’s already lowering and you hear a loud cackle: “Mando!”

“Come on,” Mando urges, and he presses his palm to the arch of your back for just a few moments. “You’ll like her.”

You wait to combust or die, but it doesn’t happen.

* * *

It turns out Mando’s quite the linguist.

You watch him talk to the Tusken Raiders with confidence, grunting and snorting his way through the conversation. There’s not a single word or grunt that comes from anyone’s mouth that you can understand, but you don’t let that bother you. Instead, you sit back on your speeder bike and concentrate on the twin suns starting to set over the nearest dune, looming impossibly large on the horizon.

_He’s probably really good with his tongue._

You hear Mando give one last grunt to the Tusken Raiders before hopping back onto his own speeder bike.

“So,” you ask. “Are they angry?”

“No.” For someone who was snorting his lungs out a moment ago, Mando’s already back to his cool self. “But it looks like the bounty’s hired some bandits to guard him. I’ll have to stake it out, so I’ll leave you with Peli after you get your supplies.” The helmet tilts as he ignites his bike. “Stay close.”

The wind feels delicious after so long on the ship. It runs across your face and over your arms as you accelerate, chasing the bounty hunter over the dunes as he leads the way back to town. The stars… you love them, but Maker, there’s nothing like the wind. It’s hot and dry and arid on Tatooine, but it feels _real,_ like you actually exist in a place that isn’t the Crest.

The light from the suns is nearly extinguished by the time you make it back, and the vendors are starting to pack their booths away. “I’ll be here,” Mando tells you. “Don’t be long.”

It feels odd to wander the streets. Even if there are more unsavory types on Tatooine than you’re accustomed to, you enjoy picking out the supplies you need in all this free space, reveling in the life that surrounds you. People aren’t too friendly and there are definitely some stares, but if you stretch your imagination it all feels normal, like how it used to be.

_A whistle._ A low whistle, soft air sliding between white teeth. “Well, aren’t you a pretty one?”

Standing right next to the goods you’re surveying is a young man who looks unapologetically at you. Not trying to hide his admiration, he shoots you a grin that you find repulsive. Thing is… he’s not completely _physically_ unappealing, but with all the frustration caged within you, you’re also not quite sure you're seeing straight. Taking note of the blaster on his hip, you ignore him.

“How bout I buy you a drink?”

_Points for persistence._ “I’m good thanks.” You force your eyes back to the goods.

“You from these parts?” The man takes a few steps closer.

“No.”

“Didn’t think so. Would have remembered if I’d seen _you_ before.” The man moves even closer. “Why don’t you and I get acquainte—” He stops before he can finish his sentence, choking on words like the air’s been sucked from his lungs.

“There you are.” The modulated baritone rings out from behind you. Had Mando been... _Had he been tracking you?_ He can’t have just _appeared_ out of thin air, and you prickle at the idea of the Mandalorian following you around like you were some child he had to care for. There’s a thread of frustration in his voice as he strides closer. “I thought I told you to hurry.”

When you glance up, the man’s already gone.

"I was trying.” You point at what you want and get your credits out for the vendor. “I didn’t mean to slow you down. This is the last thing.”

The Mandalorian is silent as you gather the supplies into your pack, legs spread and his thumbs resting on his belt. He’s so intimidating, just standing there—the perfect statue of raw masculinity. The suns are low, so low that the sky bursts blood-orange behind him, reflecting gently in the beskar as he looks at you. _Beautiful_ , you think, before you can stop yourself. Pleasure shoots through your veins as you stare back at him. Beautiful in motion, beautiful in stillness. You could watch him forever.

Right now, though, the anger—no, it’s still frustration—radiates off him like an energy field. You wonder if he’s going to ask if you’re okay, but he doesn’t. He just stands there.

Tension fills his voice when he speaks. “You..." He stops himself, as if he's deciding whether or not to go through with the sentence. "You shouldn’t draw attention to yourself.”

Of all the things he could have said, you didn’t expect that. “Excuse me?” You shoot him an incredulous look. “He was bothering _me,_ not the other way around.”

The Mandalorian mumbles something under his breath, but you don’t catch it.

“Do you have anything to say?” _Why were you so feisty sometimes?_ You know you should drop it, but you can’t.

Mando’s voice is still unbelievably quiet through the modulator, but you manage to catch his words this time. “That what happened on Nevarro?”

You stay quiet. _On Nevarro?_ Struggling to compute his words and the audacity of them, you realize the Mandalorian’s referencing _the man on Nevarro_ —the man from the back-alley of the cantina. The man you can’t even put a face to anymore, truth be told. “Oh, that’s rich,” you snap, turning away from the Mandalorian, fully intent on marching back to Peli’s without him escorting you all the way like some _bantha._ “It’s _none of your business_ , and it’s not like I haven’t been with men before. I’ve been with men—”

—and then Mando hooks a gloved finger in your pocket, spinning your hips roughly so you face him and _tugging_. With the height difference, the only thing that stops you from crashing face first into his chestplate is your palm which shoots straight out to brace you. _Ow._ And even with all your bodyweight thrown at him... Mando doesn’t budge. He just looms over you like those damned suns, his helmet tilted down in pure condescension. Any closer and your breath would fog his visor.

“You’ve been with boys,” he says, voice low. He’s so close and so _warm._ His hand shifts so that he grips your hip. Tightly. “What you mean—” This time his breath catches in his lungs. You hear and _feel_ that, right under your palm. “— is that you’ve been with _boys_ before.”

He lets you go.

_Shaky knees._ His words shoot down your spine but you pull your hand away like it’s been burned, trying to reclaim some of your dignity. “You— You fucking Bu—”

… _And then your eyes focus on the shadowed figure over Mando’s shoulder,_ perched on the roof with a blaster. “Mando, watch o—”

But the Mandalorian has already sensed it. Before you can finish warning him, he pulls out his blaster, turns, and shoots. The Mandalorian doesn’t miss—never does. The silhouette tumbles from the roof with a flash of red, landing face first in the dusty street. Dead.

You stand in shocked silence. It all happened so _quick._

_He_ was so _quick._

“Bandits.” Mando shoves you into motion. “Get behind me.”

_Red._ Blinded by blaster fire, you barely register another shadowy figure running out from a side alley. Red beams spark spark in the low-light, one bouncing off beskar as Mando blocks the shot with his gauntlet and kicks the enemy squarely in the chest. Lifting his rifle, Mando swipes at another approaching bandit over the head, expertly firing at yet another in retreat.

Right before your eyes, the bandit’s body turns to dust.

There's no time to fully process your awe. Finding your guts you grab at your own blaster, feeling it jump in your hand as you fire at a sniper on the roof— _pew-pew-pew_. You’re not sure if you’ve hit your target (probably not) but you don’t have time to check before more blaster fire forces you behind a stall. You’re crouching for cover, hoping that Mando’s alright when—

A blaster fires three times, painting the walls of the alley with flashes of color.

And then… utter silence.

You hold your breath, crouching, getting ready—

“It’s me.” You gasp when Mando walks around the stall, rifle in one gloved hand and the other up in the air in appeasement. You really do feel like some unruly bantha now, with him trying to calm you from afar as he approaches. “Listen—I need you to make your way back to the ship. To Peli.”

You’re finding it difficult to speak. “What about—about—” To his credit, the Mandalorian waits for you, unbearably patient in this moment. “What about you?”

“I’ll be fine.” He hooks the rifle on his back, stepping closer and casting you in his shadow. “I need you to take care of the Kid. Need you to make sure he’s safe.”

You nod, every sarcastic remark on your tongue melting away. You’re suddenly so _sincere._ “I’ll keep him safe. I promise.”

“I know.” Every instinct in your body is frayed from the blaster-fight, so you don’t flinch when Mando reaches up and brushes the hair out of your eyes. His gloved hand doesn’t leave your face, and it grounds you, more sure a touch than anything else he’s given you, more steady. He pinches your chin between two fingers, tilting your entire face up so your eyes meet his visor. “I’ll be back.”

You want to reach out and touch him in return, to feel him solid under your palm once more.

But before you can, he’s walking away, cape swirling and rifle on his back.

* * *

Sometimes, you wish you were a child again.

The Kid is blissfully asleep, his hands twitching as he dreams. You find yourself hoping it’s a good dream. As you brush a finger over his crinkly forehead, you know there’s no denying the Child has waddled his way into your heart, obliterating every defense you’ve erected around it in order to turn yourself into a fighter. You give his fuzzy ears one last rub before you shut the doors to the crib.

It’s been hours and Mando hasn’t come back, but you’re not worried. Not after what you witnessed.

_The stories were true._

“Girl. Are you listening? You need rest.” Peli eyes the pile of your substantial Sabacc winnings. “Besides, you have to give me a break.”

On cue, a big yawn escapes you. “Alright.” Even if you want with all your heart to stay up, you could use a few hours of sleep. “I’ll take the Kid back to the—”

“He’ll be good right here.” Though Peli has done nothing but grumble at you since you arrived, she grabs your hand and squeezes it. “And don’t you worry about Mando. He’ll be fine.”

_You’re not worried._ You want to tell her you’re not worried, but the truth is, you find it harder lying to her than yourself.

The Razor Crest feels dull and empty without the Mandalorian and the Child. It feels like a cold metal vessel, which you suppose _is what it is,_ but you’re surprised at how... empty it seems. You’ve spent so much time in space alone that you're no stranger to it; an unoccupied ship shouldn’t shake you. But as you curl up in the cot and shut the door, the worry begins to seep into your bones. You wonder if he’s still fighting.

Weariness eats at you. Every muscle in your body feels compressed, tense. You won’t feel better under he comes back, or until…

Well... You _are_ alone.

You haven’t been alone in weeks, so you haven’t been able to give yourself what you’ve been seeking. It feels a little twisted that this is your only opportunity, but you don’t want to just lie here, pretending that you’ll be able to doze off eventually. Anxiety would fester in you all night, and you know it. You'll lie here _all night_ , painfully awake as you think about him, heart racing. Try as you might to ignore it, your body wants a release. A thousand teasing touches have brought you here.

During the rebellion, everything happened so fast: relationships, friendships, life—death. Nobody has ever touched you like Mando has. There’s a slowness to it, a confidence to how the bounty hunter moves, a certainty in his desire for you that's simultaneously flattering and undeniably sexy. He's building you up, dripping more lust into you, feeding the ache you nurse for him. _And Maker did you want him._ You think of him hovering over you today on the street, and how he _manhandled_ you. _Why_ , your mind asks. _Why does that turn you on so much?_ Behind your eyelids, a flash of images breaks through your consciousness, pictures so lewd you didn’t think you were capable of conjuring them.

You pull up your shirt and palm at your breast, sliding a hand down the soft skin of your tummy until your fingertips meet the resistance of your belt. You push right past it, seeking out your throbbing center. It’s wrong how wet you are already. In this position your range of motion is limited, so you settle for rubbing yourself messily under your pants, bringing yourself closer and closer with each desperate movement. It’s not even close to satisfying, but for now— for now this will do. Your whimpers ring off the metal walls, filling the space, and _you’re so close already, you’re so fucking close_ —

The ship shakes.

You hear the ramp lower. Before it finishes lowering all the way it stops abruptly with a creak, and you hear someone —or _something_ — _clamber_ onto the Crest, a heavy clang of metal ringing out a few feet from closed cot. With your left hand you fumble for the blaster that’s next to you in the darkness, yanking your other out of your pants.

You manage to point the blaster at the door of the cot just in time for it to slide open, inches away from your bare feet.

You blink. It’s the Mandalorian.

He stands over you, chestplate rising and falling as he catches his breath. “Good,” he says. “You’re safe. Where’s the Kid?”

“Safe. With Peli.” You squint up at him—he’s so bright after the darkness of the cot—while you slowly become aware that your slick is _still on your hand_. Just for a second, your eyes dart to your hand—the _wet_ hand—that you’ve placed on your own belly. _Fuck,_ you think, _that’s obvious._ Lowering the blaster, you try to remain casual. “I just came back to sleep.” _Is your voice always so tinny and high-pitched?_

The Mandalorian doesn’t say anything. The helmet tilts, inspecting your body for any sign that you’re injured; he’s probably wondering why your breathing is so erratic. Meanwhile, you’re just trying not to squirm.

He keeps looking.

The helmet turns away as he studies the ship. “Were—” He pauses, letting the silence smolder before he speaks again. “Were you...?” He looks back at you, the helmet cocking to one side.

You don't answer. All you can do is lie back and _squeeze_ your eyes shut in mortification, hoping that you really _did_ fall asleep and this is some awful dream. You want to sink into the floor, past the metal ground of the ship, past the sand and the dirt all the way down to Tatooine’s core, where hopefully you’ll find some shelter from his eyes—

A gloved hand circles your ankle and _tugs._

Your eyes fly open, your hands grappling for control as your whole body is pulled effortlessly to the edge of the cot. There’s barely any time to adjust to the Mandalorian towering over you before he kneels between your legs. He sinks a big hand into the hollow of your hip, pulling your back roughly towards him.

In an effort to stabilize your body, your hands land on his pauldrons.

The wetness from your hand smears on his prized beskar armor, and you hope he doesn’t notice. But of course he does. He doesn’t miss anything. Bright light glides over his helmet as he turns to look at it—the stain.

You’re going to die of embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”

“Close your eyes,” he murmurs, voice rough through the modulator.

“W-what?”

“Close your eyes. And keep them closed.”

The last thing you see is his dark visor as you snap your eyes shut and do as you’re told, your world falling swiftly into darkness. Without any visuals, the air in the ship feels colder, and you shiver as his hand leaves your hip. There’s a click and a small hydraulic hiss, right in front of you, and you’re just... waiting again.

A gloved hand circles your wrist, removing your wet hand from his pauldron. You’re confused, but only for a few seconds because he—he—

Mando slides your fingers into his mouth.

His mouth is warm—wonderfully warm—and you feel the roughness of his tongue as he wraps it around your fingers, _sucking._ You almost jerk away in your surprise, but the firm grip he has on your hand keeps it in place; you gasp as your wrist meets the hard edge of his beskar helmet, and you realize that he’s… tilting his helmet back… holding it up with his other hand _just enough_ so he can lick the wetness off your fingers. An unfiltered moan— _his_ unfiltered moan—vibrates in your fingertips, echoing in your ears. It’s a lovely sound, pure _decadence_ , shooting pleasure from the top of your spine to the tips of your toes.

The heat of his mouth leaves your fingers. Mando takes his time savoring your hand, your flavor, his tongue trailing across your skin as you whimper. _Don’t open your eyes._

“ _Fuck,”_ he grits out. He presses a hot, wet, kiss to your palm, laving his tongue over the center of it right after. “You taste _good,_ sweet girl.”

At that sentence, you know he’ll notice how the flush travels all the way down to your chest. You can smell his skin, the musk of it, the leather of his gloves. “M-Mando…” You’ve never needed anyone this badly. “Please…” You’re not sure what you’re asking for. His mouth leaves you.

You hear another _click_ as he tangles his fingers with yours. “Open your eyes,” he says, his voice modulated.

His helmet is already on, but he’s still kneeling between your legs. Your hands shoot out, reaching desperately for him, grasping his chestplate, pulling at his belt—

“Wait.” He stills you by pressing a gloved palm to your chest. He doesn’t continue and your heart plummets, but then he’s leaning into you, the helmet pressed against your forehead as his hands jump to your hips, pulling your pants off roughly like he can’t wait to see more of your bare skin. “Are you—” He can’t seem to finish his sentences, but you know what he’s asking anyways.

You kick your pants off your legs, helping him tug them off as you nod. “Y-Yes.” He flings the material behind him.

“I need to see you,” he growls. Your underwear is soaked from all your want, and Mando hooks a finger in the fabric, pulling it to the side to stare at your pussy for only a second before he lets it snap back. He doesn’t say anything—just gives a single grunt—before his gloved hands grab at your shirt, working it over your head.

It’s only when your chest is bared that he finally slows down.

Strained breaths crackle through the modulator. “… Do you need this?” His chest is still heaving as he brandishes your shirt before your eyes, and you’re not really thinking before you’re shaking your head; you don’t really care that he’s gripping your favorite shirt between his gloved hands and tearing it, tying a strip of cloth over your eyes—

Your world sinks into darkness again, and you tremble as he cups your face, easing you back gently until your spine hits the cot. Rough material trails across your neck as he brushes his fingertips over your metal choker.

“Keep that on.” His voice is stern as he smooths a hand across your collarbone, running a gloved finger over your nipple before pinching it.

You yelp, body twitching. “G-glovess—”

The heat of his body leaves you. You hear the familiar rip of velcro and a dull thud as he casts his gloves aside. There’s also the _click_ of his helmet, the tell-tale hiss of it loosening before he places it on the ground with a metallic thud.

Time slows as you wait, flowing like syrup as you just _wait._

Stars—and you almost never say that— _stars,_ you can feel his warm breath on your face as he leans down and braces an armored forearm above your head, the tip of his sharp nose brushing yours as he studies your face up close. It feels so… disorienting to be the one hidden behind material while he stares at you so blatantly, the roles reversed. You reach up, pushing your palm into the sharp plane of his jaw.

He doesn’t kiss you.

Instead, he presses his face into the dip of your neck and _breathes._ There is the gorgeous friction of his stubble across your skin as he trails his nose down your naked skin painfully slow, moving down the line of your sternum, and you realize… he’s _smelling_ you. It’s more intimate than a kiss, more inherently corrupt _._ He’s inhaling deeply, as if he can’t get enough of you, of your arousal, of your _scent._

Large hands carve a path down your waist. “You’re pretty everywhere, sweet girl,” he slurs in that delicious voice of his, the words rolling off his tongue and melting into each other. “You should see the way they look at you.” This time, his mouth is so close to your chest that you really do feel his voice _rumble;_ the desperate little whines coming from your mouth sound so feminine mingled with his full, unfiltered baritone, your own sounds so needy and foreign to your own ears. 

You try to move closer to him, but his hands grip your hips, keeping you still. “But now I know you’re so pretty _here_ —” He kisses your neck briefly, and a bare finger barely brushes across your sensitive nipple before it’s enveloped by the wet heat of his mouth. You moan, your back arching off the cot, pushing your chest further into his hot tongue— “And here…” —but his mouth leaves you, forging a sticky trail further down your stomach, the tip of his nose pressing into your skin again as he inhales. “And here." Finally, he hooks his hands under your knees, unbelievably patient as he leisurely lifts your legs over his broad shoulders.

Your underwear is still on, so the sensation is dulled when he pushes his face into your crotch. He’s inhaling again, deeply and slowly, and _stars, you would be so fucking embarrassed if you weren’t so worked up._ Mando rubs his face into your cunt, the sharp edge of his nose on your clit making you cry out. “M-Mando…”

You feel him move away to kiss the inside of your knee. The restraint is apparent in his unsteady fingers as he tugs your panties down your hips and down your legs, in the way his palms shake as he smooths them slowly over your thighs, spreading you _wider,_ tilting your hips up for him to _see._

“Look at you,” he groans. Your pussy gushes just thinking about him kneeling there, still in his armor and his cape, gazing down at every inch of your bare body. “Look at your pretty little pussy. Is this for me?”

_You want him to look,_ you realize. You _want_ him to study you with your chest pushed out, spread open and writhing in anticipation of him. “Please, Mando…” You’re begging again, begging for him to touch you. You flinch as he pinches your nipple, but it’s not enough.

“So wet you’re dripping.” The Mandalorian’s head is so close to your sex that you can feel it when he keeps running his mouth, the warm air unbearable on your exposed cunt. _Maker,_ you think you can feel the tip of his nose. “Tell me…” He exhales purposefully, _slowly,_ letting his hot breath dampen your slick folds even further. “Do those boys of yours make you feel like this?”

It takes a second for you to get what he’s saying, but when you do his question hits right where you need it, making your clit pulse. _He hasn't even touched you yet and you're a mess._ "N-Never.” You shake your head and whisper, desperate to please him. “N-no.”

“Good,” he growls. “Is this all for me?” You nod and whimper, feeling your entrance clench at his arrogance, the Mandalorian’s breath growing shaky when he sees what he does to you in such minute detail. “ _Good girl,”_ he groans, deep in his chest, and this time the rumble runs down your legs from where they’re slung over his broad shoulders. Warm palms stroke your inner thighs, finally fastening around your hips.

You gasp as he finally smooths a thumb over your clit, the pressure so light it’s barely there.

“P-please,” you choke out, rocking your hips up into his hand. Your own hands come up to play with your own nipples. Mando begins drawing slow, tight, circles around your clit with his thumb, and _stars_ , you’re fucking melting, already so close for the second time tonight— “P-please, Mando, please just fucking— just fucking show me, show me what you mean, _fuck—_ ”

He withdraws his hand suddenly.

“Stop talking,” he spits out coarsely. _“Wait._ Just... Stay there. Let me look at you.” You hear him shift and… is he… undoing his belt? “Just—” His right pauldron shifts under your calf, his shoulder rising and falling, and though you can’t see— you can picture it, _hear_ it. _Fuck,_ it sounds _obscene_ as Mando uses your slick to jerk himself off. You’re trembling, fucking wrecked at the thought of breaking the Mandalorian’s discipline, of forcing him to use your wetness to relieve some of the pressure he feels.

He nuzzles the inside of your thigh, panting, and you whimper as he suddenly stops, reaching up to tangle his fingers with yours again.

His beautiful voice is blurred with pleasure. “F-fuck… sweet girl... want to… want to taste you so bad,” he swears. “So perfect. Look so—so fucking _perfect_ , such a pretty pink pussy, look like you taste so fucking good—”

“Please,” you whine. “Tell me what you want from me.”

“I want you to cum on my mouth.”

Before your brain can form a reply, he licks your cunt from bottom to top.

The moan that leaves your mouth is pitifully high as you turn your face into the cot, cheeks burning. _“Stars,_ Mando, please don’t stop, please.” He grips your thighs, holding you right where he wants you. You’re still babbling when you feel the swell of his lips cover your clit; you’re reduced to cheap little whimpers when he sucks gently, his tongue dipping deeper to taste every inch of you. “Oh, that’s so _good._ “

He releases a hum at the praise, the vibration of it traveling up your swollen bud and sending tingles down your legs. When he starts to languidly trace circles around your clit with his tongue, you wish you could see it—see him. It’s so… slow and deliberate, like all his teasing, nudging you closer and closer to the edge with every delicious revolution.

Heart pounding, you let out another pitchy moan as you reach down to wrap your fingers in his hair, feeling the thick locks for the first time. You tug and his spine stiffens, the hands on your thigh twitching. Robbed of your sight it’s still overwhelming, his mouth infernally hot. “Mando…”

‘I know, sweet girl.” He murmurs right into your pussy, the words muffled by your slick skin. “I know what you need.” He keeps licking you, tasting you, until finally he tears his mouth away and you _whine_ —

—but then he’s dipping the tip of a thick finger into the entrance of your drenched pussy, letting your muscles pulse around it. “So _tight_. Fuck.“ You feel him withdraw his hand, hear him slide a finger into his mouth again and _suck._ You shake as he sinks the thick finger deeper into you this time, hot and wet and messy with his spit. He works you open, thrusting in and out, keeping the same, slow, steady pace while he starts rubbing your clit with his thumb. 

There it is, the spark of your orgasm low in your tummy as he leans forward to flick his tongue lightly against your clit, beating out a slow and patient rhythm. He’s stupidly patient, savoring you while adding another finger inside your blushed hole.

Meanwhile you're pleading with him, writhing your hips to get him to finger fuck you _harder_ , _faster_ , but he just growls in return, his tongue still traveling painfully slow through the folds of your cunt. He _resists._ It’s so… _deliberate, so slow,_ so fucking _infuriating_ as he breaks you apart piece by piece.

This is it: the culmination of his teasing, you falling right over the edge of any restraint that the both of you have been pretending to possess.

You can feel every ridge, every callous on his battle-worn fingers. You’re dizzy with the pleasure, nonsensical with it when he suddenly decides to curl his fingers up and _press,_ driving your desire to a feverpitch—

“Right there,” you tell him. "Right there." Your sharp pants come faster at the incomprehensible pleasure of it. It’s so fucking sexy— _he’s_ so sexy— “Fuck Mando, I’m going to cum, I’m going—I-I'm cumming—”

You’re pretty sure you black out from the pleasure, but you can’t be sure because of the blindfold. He grips your thighs and you feel your body _convulse,_ legs shaking from where they’re slung over his broad back. You gush into his mouth, down his wrist, and he’s moaning into your skin, the sounds of his pleasure blending into yours.

You _could_ be blind; maybe he’s _blinded_ you. You think you hear yourself breathing, but you can’t think straight, can’t even remember your own name.

When you finally come to, his mouth is still on you, suckling, _tasting._ In your post-orgasm oversensitivity you lurch away, feeling his short breaths on your inner thigh and the kisses he presses to your pussy, obscenely wet and surprisingly tender. And of all the things he’s done to you tonight, _that’s_ what makes you blush the most.

Even in your blindness, you feel him reach for his own cock.

“Mando…” You play with his thick hair, tousling it with your fingers. It’s longer than you expected, eternally soft and curly at the ends. “Let me… Let me take care of you.” Despite the ground-shattering orgasm you've just experienced, you want him just as much as before. _Or more._

“I’m already c-close. Can I…” His shoulders are shaking as he presses another kiss to your thigh. “Can I—”

You know what he’s asking. You nod. “All over me,” you say, and then he’s struggling to stand, his pants growing sharper and louder. He _groans._ You can’t see a thing still, but you can feel it, feel him painting your body with his cum.

In the next second you hear him him drop to his knees, his beskar armor clanging on the floor of the Crest. Before you forget— because you really are that eager—you trail a finger over your tummy, sliding your digit through his cum and into your mouth _. You know he’s watching._ You want him to know where you stand; you want him to know how much you’ve thought about how he tastes.

He holds his breath as he watches you suck, but he doesn’t swear, doesn’t say anything for a good, long, moment.

“You,” he finally mumbles between pants, squeezing your thigh with a rough hand. He doesn't continue the sentence, his breaths eventually slowing. 

You’re used to the darkness now, comfortable in it. You feel safe knowing he’s there. “Did you get the bounty?”

“ _Mhm_.” He presses another wet kiss to your inner thigh. “I did.”

“Mando…” You reach to play with his hair again, feeling him subtly move into your touch. “I was wrong. It’s not excessive.” You’re not sure if he gets your meaning, or even remembers your conversation from this morning. You pause, waiting. “The rifle.”

“I know,” he says. And then you can feel his smile, a small thing, something you can only tell from how the curve of his cheek pushes against your bare thigh. “I told you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love how funny Mando is. 
> 
> etchedbox.tumblr.com


	4. High Noon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no plot in this! **Pure smut.** warnings for slight degradation, oral sex (m receiving), edging...

He returns at dawn, a tall silhouette carved out of the rocky landscape.

“I can pay you handsomely.” The bounty this time is a Twi’lek. “Whatever they’re paying you, I can double it—”

“Save it.”

Sitting in the cot, you try to stay out of the way. Most bounties get sad and desperate, begging for their freedom, but this Twi’lek is seething, already frothing at the mouth at the mere prospect of imprisonment. The morning is so early that you’re still wearing a sleeping shirt—one of Mando’s actually—and no pants… no panties. You clutch the blanket close to your lower body and study the floor of the Crest, hoping the bounty won’t notice you.

“You’re rotting under that shiny beskar armor, Mandalorian,” the Twi’lek hisses. “Even your ship is a wasteland.“

_Okay,_ you think, _maybe you should just shut the door_ —

Too late. The bounty’s dark gaze lands in your corner.

“What’s this?” He advances on you, his arms swinging menacingly in front of him even though they’re in binds. “The Mandalorian’s got himself a woman.” You stare right back, trying not to quiver. “And here I thought you were a loner, Mando. At least you know where to spend your credits.” The Twi’lek leans over in an attempt to touch your blanket, his fingers outstretched. Under normal circumstances, you would have harsh words for anybody who spoke of you like an inanimate object or implied you were some kind of whore, but you’re scared. There’s true malice in his eyes, and he’s too close for comfort. “Yes, she’s a pretty little thing. Bet there’s some soft flesh right between her—”

Right before the bounty’s fingers can reach you, the Mandalorian grabs the Twi’lek by the collar. 

“Don’t look at her,” Mando tells him, voice cool. “Look at me.”

Then Mando shoves the bounty face first into the Crest’s wall, hard. With Mando’s strength, it doesn’t take much before the Twi’lek’s wailing in pain.

As much violence as you’ve witnessed in your short life, it all feels incredibly detached compared to this, nova-like explosions in the vacuum of space, pure silence among the stars. Turning your head away, you shut your eyes. You hear Mando yanking the bounty to his feet and knocking him brutally into the freezing chamber. You flinch at the loud bang and fizz as gas and carbonite release.

The Twi’lek’s wailing abruptly stops.

Mando’s standing in the hold when you open your eyes.

There’s a pause before all the air leaves his lungs, as if it previously took all his energy to stand straight before; his movements are sluggish, slower than usual as he lowers himself onto the nearest crate. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Should’ve been back sooner.” He’s been gone two days. “Was a… was messy.” He leans back, his helmet hitting the wall.

“I can tell.” You swallow as your eyes travel down his strong frame. He’s not outwardly injured, just on the brink of exhaustion. “You okay?” You want to go to him, but you’re all too aware that there’s absolutely nothing on the lower half of your body. You don’t want him to think you’re some kind of pervert. Though maybe that’s a moot point, considering all that happened two nights ago.

Mando looks at you, the helmet rolling against the wall. “I’m fine.” He’s looking at you, and you’re looking at him… and that’s it, that’s all it takes to ignite the burning desire inside you. Maker, you should really go to him. “You?” His voice is hoarse.

Fuck it. His shirt is big enough to cover your crotch and most of your ass; which is enough, you hastily decide, to be considered tasteful. You get up from the cot, leaving the blanket behind and padding over to him. “Fine,” you say back. “The Kid was happy. Ate some small unfortunate creature with feathers when we were out walking yesterday. He didn’t even need liquid to swallow it. Whole.”

“Yeah? He does that.” You love it when fondness for the Child creeps into Mando’s voice, even if it’s almost undetectable. It might be your imagination, but you're pretty certain the visor isn’t pointed towards your face now; it’s tilted in the direction of your bare legs. “He asleep in the cockpit? In his crib?”

You hum and nod, starting to sit on the crate next to Mando. Before you can, he reaches out, stopping you with a soft touch near your knee. He retracts his hand and widens his legs even more… then he smooths a hand over his armored thigh, his visor now trained pointedly on your face. Only your face.

You blush when you realize what he means. “Really?”

“The crate’s cold,” he insists, totally serious through the modulator. "I'm not."

It’s an invitation, but he’s not acting like it.

Fine, you think. If he wants to play it like that. “Thank you, Mando.” You steel yourself. Be less obvious. “I appreciate it.” You lower yourself slowly onto his lap, letting your shirt (or his shirt, really) ride up an inch or two as you do.

Making a show of adjusting your posture, you resist the urge to shiver as the naked skin on the back of your thighs makes contact with the beskar. Now that you’re only inches from his crotch, you catch the way his breath hitches as you shift around. Still… the Mandalorian doesn’t look down. You grab the blaster from his thigh holster, and his entire body stiffens; secretly and quickly, you lock that information away for another time. "Do you mind if we move this? I know weapons are your religion, but...”

"Of course not,” he says, and you place his blaster to the side. There’s no hint in his voice that there’s anything out of the ordinary, no indication that you’re perched half-naked in his lap. Your face is so close to his helmet that it’s definitely not ordinary, either; it occurs to you that without it he would be able to whisper in your ear.

To your utter disappointment, he doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t move at all. Instead, he asks: “Do we need more fuel for the next passage?”

“Hmmm...” You pretend to think really hard. Which isn’t that difficult of a thing to pretend, considering he’s a gigantic distraction, all big and warm and masculine and quite frankly, comfortable. Truthfully, you can’t remember the fuel levels on the Crest right now, even though that is a large part of your job. “Don’t think so. We’ll be fine.”

“And the hyperdrive?” His voice is deeper than usual, rough with exhaustion. “You were working on that when I left.”

In this position your head is slightly above his, but you’re almost level with his eyes so you make a concerted effort to look into the visor. "I’ve got the hyperdrive working better. Much better, actually. And there’s also this old part that I just fixed up, didn’t think it would be easy to find a replacement with the Crest being pre-Empire—” You falter ever so slightly when you feel a brush of leather at the edge of your shirt. “— and it might be expensive now since there’s less demand.” His fingers don’t leave you, the gloved tips skimming lightly over the top of your bare thigh where fabric turns to skin. Back and forth, back and forth. “And I cleaned the astromech—” You find it a little harder to keep explaining when his other hand comes to rest on the small of your back, applying just enough pressure to keep it arched. “—the astromech socket. That thing was dusty.”

“That’s good.” Mando gives a low hum of approval. His helmet hasn’t wavered from your face yet. “Might need it soon.”

Strange. “Well…” You give him a look. “That’s only if you ever buy a droid.”

He pauses his stroking, but only for a second. “Right.” Mando clears his throat briefly, his voice quieter now. “You never know.” The pressure on your back vanishes, and then—is he toying with your braid? Unless you look over your shoulder you can’t be certain, and you’re not going to give him that satisfaction.

“What about the bounty?” You talk mainly to fill the air as he starts drawing circles on your hip, his fingers edging teasingly under the hem of the shirt. “Why… Why was it messy?”

While his touches grow bolder, Mando’s voice is completely placid, betraying no sense of impropriety whatsoever. “He knew how to use his blaster.” All of the sudden, he tugs lightly on your braid, releasing it after a fleeting moment. “Most don’t.”

Your breath catches. “Ah— That’s—” Okay, you’re completely distracted now. It’s impossible to focus when his hand is so close to where you want it. Were you wet before sitting on his lap, or did that happen after? “That’s unfortunate.” Mentioning the bounty makes you remember the look in the Twi’lek’s eyes and his disgusting grin as he leered at you. “You took care of that, though.”

As if he can read your mind, Mando gives a rumble of dissatisfaction. “He had it coming.” You struggle not to gasp as Mando tugs on your braid again, this time harder and for longer—hard enough to jerk your neck back, exposing your neck. The pain shoots through your scalp, straight between your legs. “He was a monster,” Mando growls. “Didn’t... Didn't deserve…” His voice trails off, but you hear his meaning all the same. Didn’t deserve to even look at you.

“No?” Your back is arched even more now and you can see your own reflection in the blade of the Mandalorian’s visor. You look so fucking needy, your pupils blown and lips parted.

“No,” Mando repeats firmly.

And then, finally… fucking finally, he pinches the hem of your shirt gently, sliding it up just enough—just enough for him to tilt his head down and see the mess you’ve made.

“Probably took more time with the bounty…” He exhales, breath rattling through the modulator. “… because this was all I could think about.”

“What do you mean?” You’re a little proud that he broke before you. Maybe more than a little. You manage to stop the shiver that threatens to overtake you when he looks back at your face dead-on.

He drops the shirt, opting instead to softly trail a gloved finger through the puffy lips of your cunt as you spread your legs, balancing precariously on his leg. He shifts under you, enticing you to look into his visor. “Your shirt. Hold it up.” When you hesitate, he shifts his thigh again. "Show me."

And fuck, you still don’t want to give him the satisfaction, but your traitorous hands grab the hem of your shirt and you’re lifting it, showing him how wet you already are while he runs his gloved fingers around your swollen clit, spreading you. You can’t believe you were worried about him thinking you were the pervert.

He lets out a slow exhale at the sight.

“Do you—” He stops. “D-Do you think you can keep your eyes closed? I know that last time… it’s… for longer this time.”

You’re surprised at his trust in you, and you’re so close that it shows before you can hide it. He freezes again, and you know he’s about to take it back, tell you to forget it—

You shut your eyes. “Yes.” You wait. “Yes, I can.”

You wait some more.

He taps your back. “Stand up and take that off. And keep—” Even though the modulator masks some of the emotion, you can tell he’s on edge. “Keep your eyes closed.” 

You’re standing, and he’s tearing off his helmet and gloves the same time you’re tearing off your shirt, and by the end of it, you’re both naked in the way that matters most. You count the stars behind your eyelids, turning to him, standing still and holding your breath again, trying to show him how good you can be when you want. But he’s already reaching out and grabbing you, pulling you closer, roughly palming every inch of your body as he mouths at your chest.

He's still sitting on the crate, so at this height it's easy for you to play with his hair, feeling him quiver as you run your fingers through it. Mando lets out a moan, the bass of it reverberating through your ribcage as he buries his face between your tits. Mapping his face for the first time in detail, you run your hands over his defined jaw, lifting it so you can gently trace the dip between his eyebrows and the ridge of his nose, trying desperately to memorize every little thing about him in your blindness.

“Sweet girl, I should have never let him lay his eyes on you.” He gropes your ass, laving his hot tongue over a nipple.

“I—I—” You’re whimpering, fidgeting, your own hands flying up to cover your mouth as he starts sucking slow, sweet, bruises into your neck and chest.

Instantly, his hands reach up, taking yours in his. “I want to hear you,” he says, breathing out in that gorgeous baritone. “Please. Let me hear you.” You’re helpless as he grips both your wrists in one large hand, helpless as he smooths a palm slowly over and down your waist, finally sliding it between your legs to cup your sex. Turning your face away, you give him full access to your neck, feeling the plane of his nose right under your jaw. “It’s insane how fast I want to fuck you, sweet girl. I walk onto my ship, and you’re in my cot, not wearing anything... Is that so you can rub your clit again, like the greedy little girl you are?“

“I was wearing a shirt,” you moan out.

“My shirt.” He lets go of your hands then, spinning you so fast that you’re dizzy by the time you’re facing away from him. You feel his big hands grab your waist again, sliding downwards, urging your entire body lower between his legs, making you feel tiny—he gives your ass a good spank and you whimper, arching your back further for him. Fuck, why does that feel so good? “Come on. Be a good girl.” He smacks your ass again, making you cry out. “You know what to do.”

And Maker, your cheeks are red-hot, but you slowly lower yourself onto his thigh, eyes closed and whimpering shamelessly as the cool beskar armor meets your skin again. And there’s no time, no time to relish it before his hand is in your hair, gathering the braid at the nape of your neck and keeping it there, pulling, making you squeeze your eyes shut as your back meets the Mandalorian's sturdy chest.

“Eyes to the front,” he murmurs softly, his low voice right in your ear, his fingers twined in your hair. He reaches down to rub your clit mercilessly, speeding up, and when you open your eyes it’s all too much, everything is flooding into your senses and it’s all too much—the light in the ship’s hold too bright. “You wanted this, didn’t you? Wanted—wanted this when you sat in my lap. Why else are you so wet?” His voice is impossibly quiet, his breaths hot over your skin as he slides two thick fingers into you without warning, and it’s still too much, and stars you’re trying not to moan too loud because you might miss what he’s saying. “You’re so beautiful I wanted it too.”

This is the most he’s ever said to you, and even though it makes you blush, you could listen to him talk forever. His voice barely pitches, barely rises as he mumbles into your skin, destroying you with every quiet word. It’s such a contrast to how he’s handling you physically, how fast he’s now rubbing your clit, how roughly he’s gripping your hair so you can’t move your head. “But I know there’s not enough fuel,” he says, kissing the sensitive skin behind your ear. “Checked before I left. Do you know?”

You stay silent, trying your hardest to think… Your mind starts to wander, but he grounds you with a tug of your hair, urging you to respond. “I—I don’t know,” you admit.

“Well I know there’s not enough fuel.” He hushes you when you try to protest, his big hand settling on your tummy as he nips at your neck and smooths the pain over with his tongue. “You don’t have to apologize. Just cum on my hand like a good girl.”

At that, your lower body tenses, ready for your release, and you rock your hips, dying for more friction. He reads your body like an expert, and you’re on the brink of destruction, whining into the air. He groans. “Beautiful girl, look at you… look at yourself, just fucking look down... look at yourself, go on, look.” The grip in your hair releases ever so slightly, enticing you to tilt your head down.

So you do.

It’s enough to make you cum suddenly: the sight of your own bare body, tits heaving and wet with his spit as his thick fingers work between your legs, his golden skin only a shade darker than yours. You shake, letting out a wail, hips squirming as he keeps moaning and whispering filth into your ear with that deep, full, voice, keeps telling you how good you are for him… how fucking good you look when you cum for him. The large hand in your hair tugs again, and you’re fucking dizzy as you ride out your orgasm—completely fucking disoriented, the room spinning as he kisses one last bruise into your shoulder.

“Close your eyes,” he whispers, and you do, trembling with the aftershocks. It’s better this way, at least right now. His hand stays threaded in your hair for a moment longer before he stands, taking you with him. Your feet find the ground but you sway, the world shifting.

“Mando, I— I’m—“ Oh, your knees start to give, and you’re not sure if you’re going to make it to the ground safely when a large hand cups your face, giving you just enough support to ease down until your knees land on the floor of the Crest.

“Shhh. It’s alright.” He hushes you again, tenderly stroking the hair out of your face. It’s comforting, his voice. He sounds concerned, and your heart swells. “Was I… Was I too—rough—”

“No.” You shake your head fast. “Oh, Maker, no. I’m just—” You struggle to find the words. “I’m just… fuck, please let me take care of you this time.” You kiss his hand, your shoulders shaking. In your post-orgasmic bliss you want nothing more than to give him pleasure, for him to feel the same way you do. “Please, I— I—” You lean into his hand, nuzzling it. “I want you in my mouth.”

You hear him inhale sharply. His touch leaves you and you’re left alone, sightless and kneeling, your body still trembling—

“Really?” His voice is modulated again, and you open your eyes slowly, letting the dark figure towering above you swim in your vision for a few moments. You stare up at him through your long lashes, barely able to focus on his visor, where you know his eyes are. How can you show him how badly you need him?

You open your mouth, stick your tongue out, and nod.

“Fuck,” he grits out, sounding broken at the visual of you on your knees for him. He runs a rough thumb down your tongue, smearing your spit over your lips as you start to pout. “Are you sure? I—I can’t— I don’t want to be too rough.”

Lips fastening tightly over his thumb, you suck for a moment before leaning back. “Crate’s cold,” you say, throwing his own words back at him. “My mouth’s warm.” You blink up at him as innocently as you can, feeling very pleased with the wordplay as his spine straightens. An invitation.

“You’re— You’re so mouthy,” he spits, the modulator ironing out his frustration the smallest amount. “Fucking filthy. Maker, you’re a fucking tease.”

“You’re the fucking tease,” you retort.

You’re both right. You love it when he breaks, and you wonder if it’s the same for him.

“Be quiet.”

You’re about to say more, when—

He’s lifting his shirt, revealing his abdomen for the first time. You’ve always known he had a toned waist (it’s one of his best qualities) and that beautiful tanned skin… but stars, this is different. You want to taste him, to run your tongue between the smooth muscles of his tummy, down the trail of dark, luscious hair that disappears under his belt… he drops his shirt. You realize he was teasing you again when he tucks his thumbs into his belt, all cocky. “Open that smart little mouth,” he instructs. You glare up at him. “Open. And keep it open. Tongue out, eyes on my helmet.” He exhales, chest falling. “Okay?”

After a moment you nod, and to your surprise, he tenderly strokes your cheek.

You sit back on your knees—and you know exactly what he means about how fast it takes to be turned on, how ridiculously little it takes for you to want him again. The cool air hits your tongue as you open your mouth and wait, fastening your bright eyes to his visor like your life depends on it.

On the edge of your vision you can see his fingers undoing his belt, working at his pants. His hand dips into the waistband, and your eyes dart down, just for a second, your jaw drifting closed—

His other hand shoots out insanely fast, his calloused fingers gripping your chin. “Eyes up,” he growls. “On me. You don't get to see. Not yet."

You pout again but do as he says, letting him tilt your chin up with a jerk. You look at the visor again, staring up at the cold emptiness of the beskar helmet as you listen… just listen to him slowly guide his cock out of his pants. You want to look so badly, but he makes you wait. Any movement from his hand and cock dances on the periphery of your vision, blurry, just incomprehensible enough for you to lose your mind when you see his shoulder start to move. He’s touching himself…

“What were you saying again?” His tone is biting, taunting, but his voice is still impossibly quiet. “What did you want?”

“Please—” You start to whine.

“Nuh-uh. Open your mouth.” His hand leaves your chin, resting on top of your head. At this angle you’re craning your neck, straining just to keep your eyes on his helmet. He moves in closer, and you’re trying your best not to move, not to look away from the visor as he eases his cock slowly into your mouth. Stars, he smells so good, like him, all leather and musk and blaster-fire. You just stare up at the visor, feeling and his cock in your mouth, your eyes watering as he eventually hits the back of your throat. “Good girl.”

You can see your face reflected in his visor, but it’s too blurry be satisfying. You moan around him and he twitches at the stimulation, pulling away. “M-mando—”

“You can look now.”

You don’t have a reply, because Maker his cock is beautiful. He’s smearing your spit around his ridiculously thick shaft while running a thumb slowly across the head. It’s a sight you’ll never forget: the Mandalorian, almost fully dressed, towering above you, playing with his deliciously hard cock—making you wait. You lean forwards, darting your tongue out to taste the swelling bead of precum that’s gathered on his tip, relishing how he tenses as you run your tongue all the way down his shaft, tracing the vein that bulges all the way down to his balls.

You’re on your knees, but somehow you feel like the powerful one. You pout and run your lips over his frenulum ever so softly, your eyes never breaking contact with his helmet as you take his tip between your lips and start to gently suck.

“F—fuck,” he chokes out, a strong fist tangling in your hair. You widen your jaw, starting to bob your head. “Fuck, you’re good at that.”

His hips stutter as he resists fucking your mouth, but you touch his hip in response, urging him on... daring him. You gag when he finally gives in and thrusts, making a messy sound that echoes in the hold. He likes it. You can tell when his hand stiffens in your hair.

So you’re reaching up, using your other hand to grip the base of his shaft, feeling his body shudder as you cup his balls. The Mandalorian’s a mess of moans now, his modulator amplifying every little sound that slips through. “I like it when you look at me with those eyes,“ he grunts out. The hand in your hair grips even tighter, urging you to take him deeper. “Oh, fuck, how are you so good—”

His words make you too dizzy, makes your clit pulse with want. You pull yourself off him, gasping for air as you try to steady yourself—

The hand in your hair tightens to the edge of pain, and you whimper as he tugs, making you look up at him again.

“Did I say you could stop?” The Mandalorian grits out the question, and oh, the pleasure of it—the audacity of it—shoots straight into your pelvis as you shake your head, gazing up at his visor in desperation.

“N-no.” Everything’s blurry through your watery eyes. “I’m sorry. P-please, please cum down my throat.” You feel him tense even more at those words, his entire body quivering as you take him into your mouth again.

“Good girl,” he tells you, stroking your face. “Look like such a good girl, so p-pretty—so good when you fly, when you’re in the cockpit—but here you are… fucking… choking yourself on my cock.“ His words make you work harder. It all makes you so desperate to please him, so fucking needy to hear him keep whispering those praises down to you. “Look at you, drunk on my cock. You’re so good to me. Smell so good, all the fucking time, so good at taking me—”

Maker, is it possible to cum from words alone? You feel the arousal pool between your legs as you moan and listen to him, finally taking him all the way down your throat, bobbing your head desperately and gagging. You swallow around him.

You feel him harden and pulse, and then he’s using your hair to roughly pull you off of him, and you’re gasping for air, and he’s using a thumb to keep your mouth open as he starts cumming—

“Keep that pretty mouth open, yes.” His voice pitches slightly, and he’s jerking himself off with your spit, the tip of his cock twitching on your tongue. “Fuck— eyes on… keep looking at me, pretty girl, keep showing me that sweet face when I cum in your mouth—”

He tastes so good. That's the first thing you think of when strands of cum spray your tongue. You moan, loving how his body shakes as he drains himself into your mouth, his filthy mouth still swearing your praises until he can’t manage to any longer. A spurt hits the edge of your mouth but he's quickly gathering it with his thumb and pushing it through your lips, not letting any go to waste. You try not to blink, your eyes tearing with the effort—

"Show me,” he whispers.

You open your mouth obediently, sticking your tongue out.

He lets go of your hair then, clearly on the verge of collapsing as he sinks down back onto the crate. You swallow him, all of him, the heat of him, the tang and bitterness of his seed sinking lower inside you, delicious and warm in your burning throat.

A warm hand cradles your face. His voice is still hoarse. “That was...”

You nod, your body sagging. "Yes…”

"Come here." He's tucking his softening cock into his pants, taking you by the hand to haul you into his lap. You’re not sitting, you’re cradled. Your body's boneless as you're encompassed by his big frame, his warmth. When he speaks his words are slurred, and though you're sure some of it is pleasure, he's more exhausted than before. Mando’s stroking your back and you let your eyes shut with the comfort of the motion. "Need to get more fuel…”

Pressing your face into his shoulder, you giggle. "Yes,” you agree. “I remember that we need to now. Did you hear what I said about the hyperdrive? Or the astromech—”

"No.”

"Did you listen to a word I said?"

"No.”

“Mando.”

“And you weren’t distracted?”

“ _Mando._ ”

“You know…” He inhales, and then to your surprise, his chest shakes as he chuckles. “We really don't have any fuel, sweet girl. If we tried to make the passage, we would’ve crashed.” Somehow this morbid possibility makes him chuckle even harder.

"Ok, I get it," you say, pushing a hand against his shoulder to stop him laughing at you. "I was distracted!" Secretly, though, you could listen to him laugh all the day, relishing the deep, chocolatey, rumbles that come from within his chest. It must be rare, but you love the sound of his joy, of his pure unabashed amusement.

"You're supposed to know the fuel levels," he continues… and for some reason, you can tell he's smiling again under the helmet. "You're the pilot."

"I know..." Your finger travels down the blade of his visor slowly, prompting his hands move you closer to him. "And you're the Mandalorian."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed this smutty interlude xx
> 
> etchedbox.tumblr.com


	5. Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the first twin chapter, mine. next chapter, yours, coming tomorrow.

There is a small crackle in the system.

The spoon hovers in the air where you hold it, the Child’s food dripping all over his lap. “I—I’m sorry, little guy.” Mopping him up, you lean over the Razor Crest’s comm unit, checking for any anomalies. “Mando?”

Another crackle.

You look at the Child. The Child looks at you. You lean over the comm unit again. “Mando?”

Nothing.

The Child gurgles.

After a moment, you shrug. “I don’t know, Kid.” You smile. “Tech does that sometimes. Especially old tech on a ship like this.” You’ve just picked up the spoon again, when—

A ﬁnal crackle, this one much longer but intermittent, cut together with a few ragged gasps.

You leap to the dashboard. “Mando?”

His voice. Words caught in roaring static. “—T-take the Kid to Nevarro.” That's blaster-ﬁre you hear in the background. Your heart sinks. “—T—tell—”

The link dies.

“Mando!” You press the button frantically. “Mando, are you alright?”

It’s futile. Try as you may, there’s nothing more, nothing but the howl of the wind outside the Crest. Distressed, the Kid looks up, large eyes staring at you and posing a single question: _where is my father?_ You’re pretty sure that Mando just asked you to ﬂy the Child back to Nevarro without him, but your stomach churns at that possibility.

Outside the cockpit, it’s gloomier than an hour ago. It’s snow and ice, a wintry mix made special for this desolate wasteland of a planet. The Mandalorian had set out for the bounty less than four hours ago with no rifle or extra supplies, leaving you with only one explicit instruction: stay on the ship.

“Fuck,” you say, to no one in particular.

“You didn’t hear that,” you say to the Kid.

_Nevarro?_ Or… You turn to the Kid. “Come on, buddy.” You pick him up. “Let’s get you into something warmer.”

* * *

His hands manacled behind his back, the Mandalorian thinks of the Girl.

He thinks of the things they’ve shared with each other, of the parts of their bodies that they as lovers have offered to one another like gifts. Her ﬁngers threaded through his hair, his mouth on the smooth skin of her neck. How sweet her smell is when their limbs are intertwined. He thinks of how he will never touch her again; how he will never feel the warmth of her lips against his or how she feels inside. He thinks of her smile, of the way she laughs. The way she looks at him.

No one had ever looked at him that way before.

“We don’t have to kill you, Mandalorian.” The other bounty hunter is fully masked but Mando recognizes his voice anyways. _Darro Boone,_ fellow member of the Guild. It was a dumb trap that this crew had set for him, and Mando should have never fallen for it. The cantina on Maldo Kreis was just bad luck, plain and simple. “Just tell us where your ship is and we’ll give you a ﬁghting chance. We’ll ﬁnd that piece of junk anyways soon as this storm clears up.”

The Mandalorian has already thought about the Kid—Grogu. But the Mandalorian decided that Grogu was going to be okay. The Kid was going to live out a long, happy, life with the Girl. A better life. With the pretty Girl who could give Grogu her smiles freely. Mando was no good for the Kid anyways. This… this was no life for a child. The Girl was kind. She tried to hide it, but she was _good_. Not like the kinds of people Mando typically kept company with. The Girl may be ﬁerce, but her intentions were pure.

Like the Kid’s.

Did he… did he smell her… right now? Did he… hear the Kid cooing… right…

The jagged wound on Mando’s right side begins to pulse harder, spilling more blood with every desperate throb of his heart. “S-should have asked—asked about the ship before cutting me open,” Mando growls, tugging at the cuffs. “C-can’t… c-can’t seem to remember now.”

“Stop struggling. You’ll only bleed out faster.” All Mando can see is the barrel of a blaster pointed at his helmet, but even that’s distorted; the dark hole is an endless vacuum, the metal bending like a mirage. “You’re not getting out of this without giving us what we want. We’ve got you eight to one.”

Mando remembers telling the Girl to get the Kid back to Nevarro. He hopes that she’ll do as he says, just this once. She’s bad at that: listening to him. “ _Dank Farrik_ ,” he murmurs. He would have liked to hold the Kid one last time… held _her_.

“How about we take off that helmet of yours and you can tell it to my face?” The Mandalorian lets Darro talk. The Mandalorian thinks about another escape plan, as best as he can with all the blood loss. There’s no such thing as a lose-lose situation. The major complication is simple: there are two men with blasters trained on Mando’s back, trigger-happy and ready to shoot the second there’s any movement from the Beskar armor. All Mando needs is a distraction, but that isn’t coming. “We’ve got no quarrel with you. Might as well help us along. I’ll count down. Five… four…”

_Three._ Mando thinks.

_Two._ Dank farrik, there’s just no… there’s just no way out.

_One._

The door to the cantina bursts opens with a gush of wind. Ice and sleet billow in, pouring through the doorway and whipping down the bar. A lone ﬁgure stands silhouetted against the bright circle of snow, a long riﬂe strapped to it’s back. Heads turn—

—and Mando takes this as the opportunity to ﬂex his wrist.

Beads of lights shine on his armor as he releases the whistling birds.

“Move!" Darro yells out to his crew in warning, but—

All at once, four men fall like insects, beskar slugs encrusted in their skulls. A particularly nasty Quarrel rushes Mando, but a swift headbutt quickly incapacitates that enemy. Before Mando can move again, Darro is right beside him, drawing his knife out and preparing to lunge.

Blaster-ﬁre splinters a nearby table, throwing Mando back into the corner of the cantina. _Terrible shot_ , Mando thinks as he lands on his front, ﬂoundering without the use of his hands. The aim’s so far off it’s pathetic. Groaning, he rolls over onto his side and glances upward.

An unmasked Darro is drawing nearer, his mouth twisted in rage. With the blood pumping in his ears, Mando can’t hear a single thing the other bounty hunter is shouting, but it’s over now. There's no defense left. Darro has the high ground. The Mandalorian feels his blood seeping into the ﬂoor.

Right before Mando's eyes, Darro’s body turns to dust.

“Changed my mind again.” A small ﬁgure stands over him, blurry as Mando’s vision ebbs away. “It is excessive,” the Girl says. “But I like it.” She places the Mandalorian’s Amban riﬂe on the ﬂoor and bends over him, undoing his binds, and this time—this time for _real_ —Mando can hear the Child cooing.

“T-terrible shot,” Mando croaks out as she rolls him over onto her lap. “H-h-it t-the table.” Thankfully, she tugs away the scarf around her mouth. He wants to see her entire face.

“I wasn’t aiming for you, obviously. Just needed you out of the way.” The Girl cradles Mando’s neck, and every muscle in his body relaxes under her touch. “Maker, Mando... you’re really hurt.” When she notes this, it sounds like _she’s_ the one that’s hurt. He wants to take that away from her. “Stay with me, we’ve got to get you back to the Crest.”

“I-is ok,” Din mumbles.

“No.” Her hand trails to his side, and she pulls it away in shock, wet with his blood. The Kid frantically crawls out of her satchel and hugs Mando’s leg. “Let’s get you ﬁxed up. Can you stand? The Kid needs you, I—”

“N-name’s Grogu.” It’s almost inaudible, but Din knows she hears. He reaches out, brushing the hair away from her face. “A-always so—”

Heavy with fatigue, his hand drops.

Everything goes black.

* * *

He hears noises out of the darkness. _“Wake up… Please.”_ Words, whispered like a prayer, again and again. The ﬁzz of a cauterizer. Snatches of perfume. Behind his eyelids, he sees a laser glowing like a soft ember at the heart of a darkened room. “Wake up… Please… Grogu. Grogu!”

_Grogu?_ If there’s anything responsible for bringing Din Djarin back from the dead, it’s hearing the Girl call him by his son’s name. Din tries to speak, but his throat feels like Tatooine. _Dry._

“Grogu!” The Girl is trailing a damp rag over his closed wound. “Grogu, can you hear me?”

“M-maker, sweet girl,” Din rasps out on the third try. His body numb, he ﬁnds the will inside him to grasp her knee. “The _Kid’s_ name is Grogu. Not mine. D-didn’t mean it was _m-mine._ ”

She freezes. “What.”

“N-need water.”

“Of course.” That’s all it takes before she’s scurrying around. His cape is laid over him like a makeshift blanket, his chestplate and pauldrons stacked against a wall. “I’m not looking, here. It’s safe. I’m not looking.“ The Girl hands him a cup and sits on the ﬂoor beside him, turning away.

Every bone in his entire body creaks as he sits up. Mando lifts the helmet and swallows the liquid, head spinning. There’s an ache on his side but it’s lessened now, a fraction of what it was before. The wound is still raw, but not wet—not bloody. The Girl must have cauterized it closed, and she did a ﬁne job.

“Your name isn’t Grogu?”

“No,” he says between gulps. “The _Kid’s_ name is Grogu.”

“Blast it, Mando.” She shifts. “You could’ve died, and I would’ve thought your name was Grogu.” She motions over to a the Child’s crib, which is tucked into the corner of this strange room, it’s doors neatly shut. “And no offense to the Kid, but that’s not exactly the best name—”

“I like Grogu,” Din gasps out, shoving his back against the wall for support. “What’s wrong with Grogu? When you call him Grogu, he does this—he does thing with his face.”

“I didn’t exactly have time to try that.” The Girl is still turned away from him, but he knows she’s upset. There’s a tautness in her shoulders, in the way she holds her head. “I put some bacta on the wound, but I didn’t have enough for all of it. I was planning on asking the bartender—”

_The bartender…_ Din drops his helmet back in place, his mouth going dry again at the realization. “Sweet girl, are we still in the cantina?” It makes sense now: the stacks of supplies, the cheap spotchka in clear bottles and hulking barrels of something more foreign. The room is cold for the single purpose of preserving these items, but it also numbs the pain.

The Girl nods. “For almost a day now. The cantina’s closed. I talked him into letting me use this back room to ﬁx your wounds. I couldn’t ﬁnd a way to make safe passage through the snow, but as soon as I get that last bit of bacta—”

Din’s trying to piece together everything that happened the moment she entered the cantina. “Boone and his crew?”

“You should rest.” When the Girl ﬁnally turns to him, her face is clear. That’s what he craves from her, Din realizes, the utter openness that comes upon her face when she looks at him. He, the man who had spent his life shielded from others. Difﬁcult to believe, even harder for him to imagine before it happened: no one else but the Girl has entrusted him with the complete truthfulness of their feelings. And though she’s had nothing but barbed words for him since he's awakened, he sees that his weakened state also hurts her.

He notices her ﬂinch as he brings an arm up in a feeble attempt to touch her. Pulling away from his reach, she walks over to a door, moving her hands over the panels until all the lights ﬂicker off, until all Din can make out is faint, pallid, shapes shifting through air. “We took care of them,” she answers.

“ _You_ took care of them,” Din insists. The Girl doesn’t dispute this. She comes to sit next to him, and though he can’t see her anymore, he still extends his hand, trailing a gloved ﬁnger over her cheekbone. He doesn’t expect her to give in easily, but whatever stubbornness lingered within her is gone. She's malleable, her muscles soft as he tugs her body into the side of him that doesn’t hurt. “Thank you.” He understands she’s angry, but not at him. “I owe you a great deal.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Is… Is Grogu alright?”

“Sleeping. I put him to bed. Didn’t want him to see—” She stops.

“Okay.” Mando pulls off his gloves and pulls her closer. Right now he wants to feel the proximity of her, the heat of her body. He hopes she knows that he’s looking at her, but she can’t possibly, it’s too dark. All he can do is feel the shape of her with his hands. “We're alone?”

“At the moment, yes.” Her voice is still quiet. True to her word, the Mandalorian sees that there are no heat signatures nearby. “It’s before dawn. The cantina doesn’t open until later.”

Her sentence catches in her throat, because she has to hear it. She has to hear the hiss as he removes the helmet; she has to feel the rush of his breath as he exhales, fogging the air between them.

“Okay.” It occurs to him that this isn’t the ﬁrst time they’ve been this close; after all the words they’ve spoken to one another, all the acts they’ve committed, this was a step out of order, the pages of an ancient text rearranged. In all his years, which are too many when he considers them, Din has never done anything like this before; he has lived life out of sequence. He closes his eyes, feeling ridiculous as he presses a palm to her face, feeling where her lips are with the tip of his thumb. He leans in. “That’s alright.”

Din kisses the girl.

The Girl is not surprised by this. If anything, she leans into him too, her soft lips meeting his halfway. Her breath is as sweet as the rest of her, and Din didn't think that _anything_ in this world could feel this good. In one instance, with this one touch of this particular patch of skin of his on hers, it's as if a perfect understanding between them is formed—his entire being fused to hers with one kiss.

He dips his tongue into her, tasting, feeling how smooth her mouth is and how rough her tongue is in comparison. Under the helmet, his senses are both sharpened and dulled. For example: he can see the heat signature of an enemy from a deep distance and eavesdrop with astounding clarity, but he can’t _smell_ , can’t _taste_. His lungs burn, raw from not breathing; he has taken her inside himself and he is afraid to let go. The Girl’s hands are tangled in his hair, and his hands in hers. He thinks that there are times where they sit beside each other in the cockpit listening to the hollow sounds of hyperspace, him watching her ﬂying; in those moments he is unable to reach her, even if he were to reach out and try. But now, Din knows that this is the closest they’ve been… the closest they can be. Right now, in this moment, in this inky darkness.

Din has been chasing this forever.

The Girl pulls away ﬁrst, face shivering, turning so her nose is pressed against his palm. She likes hiding from him this way, and he wishes he could ﬁnd her with his eyes, but the darkness only seems to close in around them.

“Mando,” she says.

“Din.”

He doesn’t think before he speaks. There’s no tremble in his voice, no hesitation. He can tell her his name because their relationship is so far from marked by it. All his life, ever since he adopted the creed, Din has been subject to the perverse desires of others. Show us your face. Tell us your name. The Girl has never asked this of him.

“Din Djarin.”

The Girl tenses as she discovers what he’s saying, and he thinks that he’s done her a disservice, burdened her with a secret she doesn’t want to carry. But—

“Din,” she repeats. He can taste the wonder on her breath. “Suits you.”

“Yes.” Din has always liked his name. “Do _not_ use it in public. Don’t say it out loud when we’re not alone.”

“Of course… Din Djarin.” His name sounds good in her mouth, the syllables rolling gently on her tongue. The Girl leans into him again, lips to his ear, and she’s whispering her name back, sharing it with him.

After she tells him, neither of them speak. Din wants to be close to her again, to breathe her in, to hold her. The Girl searches for him too, pure need emanating from the both of them. His body is too weak to leave the sturdiness of the wall, but he seeks her out with his lips, craning forwards to clumsily crash his mouth against hers again. As they scramble in the dark he molds her body to his, pulling her into his lap; the ache of the wound lingers and the wall is clammy against his back, but he wants nothing more than to be inside her, to feel her move with him.

“Din.” The Girl stops him, her hand firm on his chest.

“Do you…” His voice is gruffer than he means for it to sound. “Do you not want to?”

“I want to, but you’re hurt.” The Girl exhales, steadying her resolve. “You’re injured.”

“You could never hurt me,” he says. She lets him pull off her clothes and she lets him apologize. He tells her how sorry he is that he left, how he thought of her; the words pour from his mouth before he can prevent them, spoken both for his sake and hers. And when she is ﬁnally bare, he pulls his cape over her shoulders, shielding her from the cold. She is light in his lap, harmless.

The Girl is still uncertain, gripping his shoulder. “Din, you’re _hurt,_ ” she repeats. Despite her words, she speaks only between kisses, as if she can’t bear to be away from him for even a moment. “You need bacta before—”

“ _I need you_. I need to be inside you.” Din’s unbuckling his belt, lifting her into his crotch, grinding up into her—doing all he can to plead with his body. “I need to have you. Now.” Bracing an arm under her ass he lifts her effortlessly, shifting his hips up to meet hers again.

Din is not a vain man. Living under his helmet, he has never had the time to indulge in how he looks. But now his pride swells at how quickly the Girl’s resolve diminishes, how fast her whimpers come as he keeps talking to her, whispering to her in the darkness that still lies heavy on their skin. He feels it in her bones when she finally relents, when she ﬂattens her chest to his and reaches down between them.

“I need you too,” she admits. 

Din has never had much taste for bodily pleasures. Every time he’s sought out sex (or his own hand) in the past, it was like food or water; instant gratification, something necessary to his survival, a requirement for the focus of his bounty-hunting profession. There was no emotion in the act, no enjoyment besides release. But now he strokes the Girl’s face, luxuriating when she moans into his mouth. He eases her down onto his cock, hearing her pants ring out in the air as the tip of him breaches her entrance. She’s so wet, so tight, so insanely hot. Din stops kissing her, afraid he won’t last. She grips his shoulder harder, and he notices her back tense.

“Din,” she whines. “S-slowly. You—You’re too…big.”

Din is not a greedy man. All he possesses is discipline and patience, his creed and his armor, things hard-earned and unyielding. But now he strains under his pure desire to be linked with her. He wants to ruin her, to make her cry out his name.

He kisses her shoulder gently, speaking into her skin. “Move when you want,” he murmurs. He twines his ﬁngers with hers, kissing her breasts slowly, savoring the small sounds she makes as he runs his palms around her tiny waist. “I want to feel you, sweet girl. All of you.” That makes the Girl moan again, and he feels her clench around him. He grits his teeth as she moves further and further down him painfully slowly, sliding his cock into her until he’s sheathed to the hilt, completely in her heat.

“F-fuck,” he’s groaning out. He barely recognizes his own voice. “Fuck, you feel good.” They’re in tandem, in sync. They moan together as she grinds her hips into his, starting to move—

The Child starts to cry. Mufﬂed by the crib, it takes a few seconds before the sound reaches them.

Din and the Girl jump apart, their breaths sticky on each other’s faces. It’s a twist deep in Din’s heart when he realizes the moment is over, and he’s overcome by a wave of complete frustration that wrenches him apart. He nips her ear, nodding against her neck to let her know it’s alright. She groans. With a small kiss she’s gone, her scent and the warmth of her body leaving him completely. He hears the soft padding of the Girl’s feet across the dusty ﬂoor as Grogu’s cries grow louder and nearer, until the Girl whispers out: “Din?”

The weight of the beskar helmet greets him like an old friend. “Yes.” His modulated voice is a clear demarkation that the moment has indeed passed.

When the lights turn on, the Girl is holding Grogu in her arms, Din’s cape wrapped snugly around them both. The Child stops wailing suddenly, his tiny green head tucked into the Girl’s shoulder as his eyes search desperately, finally finding Din against the wall.

“He knows you’re awake. He misses you.” The Girl walks over and kneels next to Din. “Don’t you, Kid?”

“Grogu.” Din corrects her before he can stop himself.

Seeing the Kid in the Girl’s arms ignites something in Din; she’s naked, flushed to her breasts, still blushing as she tries to cover herself with his cape. And the Kid… Grogu is so happy to see his father, reaching up with his little hands. And even though Din is still devastated at the interruption, his heart softens the moment the Child is back in his arms.

“I’m alright, Kid.” He strokes the Child’s big green ears, fuzzy under his hands.

It’s a tender moment, but when Din looks at the Girl, there’s lust in her eyes, muted but unquenchable. She gives him a soft smile. “I’ll…” She blushes even deeper. “I’ll put something on.” He sees the marks he’s kissed into her neck, raw and red as she moves gracefully around the room.

Din has never been a selfish man, but when he looks at the Girl as she’s dressing, he thinks: _mine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> etchedbox.tumblr.com


	6. Yours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second part of the Mine and Yours twin pair of chapters I wrote! 
> 
> Chapter warnings: SMUT, rough sex, lots of dirty talk, edging, light dom Mando, anal play (blink and you’ll miss it) - blushin at all these warnings

You love the Kid (you’ll admit it), but _Maker,_ you and Din were having a _moment._ You and _Din._

He was a _really_ good kisser.

That isn't a thought that should occupy space in your brain while you’re gathering supplies to leave the cantina, but you can’t stop yourself. Every time you shut your eyes for even half a moment you feel the brush of his lips against yours, the stubble on his cheeks on your jaw… the brush of the facial hair that lines his upper lip. These were details that you didn’t know before, or at least not in such color as you do now _._

Oh, and _yes,_ you can still feel him between your legs, a beautiful soreness already beginning to form from when he was inside you for all of thirty seconds.

“Is that all I can help you with?” The elderly bartender is smiling at you, his voice barely breaking over the noise of the cantina.

“Y-yes.” You nod briskly. “I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done.”

“It’s no problem.” The bartender is quick to reply. “You did pay.”

You see Mando— _Din—_ appear from the backroom, his rifle strapped to his back. The chatter in the cantina instantly dims as the bounty hunter enters. “Of course. Don’t mention it,” you tell the bartender with an air of finality, and thankfully, he doesn’t push it. “Do you know where I can find some bacta in this place?”

“Bacta? On Maldo Kreis?”

“Yes.”

The bartender snorts. “You can try asking that fella’ over there, but he isn’t cheap. One of my contacts. He’ll charge ya.” He motions his head over to a scarred man sitting by the door. “And Girl,” the bartender stresses. “I don’t mean with _credits.”_

You manage a terse smile. “I see.” Your eyes run over the Contact, surveying your only apparent chance at acquiring bacta on this entire planet _. Blast_ he’s a nasty looking guy; surprisingly young, but already gnarly from his accumulated sins. “Thank you, really.”

Din’s beside you at the bar before you can count to five, his back stiff with pain and Grogu’s crib floating placidly beside him. The Mandalorian’s wound isn’t visible, but you’re aware of how much it must still hurt. He grabs your elbow. “Let’s get out of here.”

Every nerve in your skin jumps at his touch. “Wait.” You pull away from him, afraid that the other patrons will notice your interaction. With Din injured there’s no sense in drawing any further attention to yourselves; in your limited experience more attention led to more fights, and right now that would not do. “Give me ten minutes.” You don’t let him answer before you walk across the bar towards the Contact.

Just before you can reach the scarred man, _another_ man—older, bigger, burlier—steps right into your path, blocking you. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Uh—” You stare up at the Bodyguard, blinking. Maybe approaching a known criminal so callously wasn’t your brightest idea.

“Let her through.” To your surprise, the Contact’s voice isn’t gruff. It’s lovely, lilting like a poet’s; it reminds you of summers on Alderaan when you were a child, of the theater plays that your parents used to take you to. The Contact turns to you, his blue eyes lingering on your face for a few moments before he drags his gaze down your body. “What do you want?”

“I was told—” Despite yourself, you stammer. “I was told you might have some bacta in your possession.”

“That’s a shame.” It’s disorienting, how the Contact’s voice doesn’t suit his face. “I was hoping that your looks from over there at the bar might be for something other than business.” He’s confident as he sips his drink. “I might have some bacta in my possession. I might not.” He pauses for effect. “Depends on who’s asking.”

“I’m asking.”

“So why don’t you take a seat?” He nods to the chair beside him. “The name’s Mar, pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

After a few moments, when it’s apparent that he’ll not say anything more until you sit, you acquiesce, still on edge. “Look, Mar, all I’m looking for is some bacta, preferably in patch form. And _I’m_ the one who’s asking.”

“That’s not what I meant.” The smile hasn’t left Mar’s face, and you’re so utterly confused at this point. Where is this hoard of unshakeable confidence coming from? “Who’s asking? The trader that you seem to think you are, or the beautiful woman I see in front of me?”

For a backwater cantina, that’s a good line. You blunder your reply, waiting for something equally as witty to pop into your head, but it never comes.

“The bacta,” you repeat.

“You’re even more beautiful when you’re confused.”

“The _bacta._ ”

Stiffening at your curt tone, Mar turns away. “You won’t find what you’re looking for here.”

_Fuck._

Desperation clings to the edges of your mind as you recall Din’s wound pulsing red underneath your fingertips. “Listen, please… please, Mar.” Your voice softens to honey as you steel yourself, your long lashes fluttering against your cheeks as you finally peer up at Mar with the widest eyes you can muster. “I have credits. I need to refill my supply kit. And I know you wouldn’t say no to someone in need. I’ll do _anything_.”

“Anything?” Mar is quick to fire your own words back at you, leaning in so close he’s just inches from your face. His voice and words may be smooth, but his breath _reeks_ just like you would expect. You could just shoot him as soon as he hands the bacta over. “Be careful what you offer.”

“What do you mean?” Even when Mar leans in to touch your arm, you don’t flinch, don’t look away.

“One last thing.” His eyes dart over your shoulder. “Are you with him?”

Turning your head slowly to see who he’s referencing, you smile when your eyes land on Mando, his beskar armor setting him apart from the crowd. Even though he’s injured he’s still intimidating, so tall and fucking powerful in his stance, especially when he places his hand over his belt like that. “Yes,” you answer. _Yes, you were definitely with the Mandalorian._

Mar’s touch leaves you immediately. “I see.” He’s still eyeing you with lust, but he’s considerably more wary. “Even the richest man in the galaxy would be a fool to charm away the woman who shares the bed of a Mandalorian.” He licks his lip. “However much he may want to.”

“What do you mean?”

Mar laughs. “Your _friend_ over there has been wanting to kill me since you walked over. But when I touched you, yes— when I touched you his hand moved to his blaster.” He smirks. “I’ll not take my chances, _friend_. I’ll take your credits instead.” He gives you a number.

You grumble as you count out what he needs, but you’re secretly glad that the meeting has taken a turn for the cordial. You stand as you throw down the credits, giving Mar a short nod as he slides a few bacta patches onto the table. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Mar says. “Come back whenever you want to make some new friends.”

Scoffing, you try not to be too obvious with your disdain as you leave. You approach Din, motioning discreetly. “Let’s head out.”

Din doesn’t say anything in return. He just trails after you as you walk out of the cantina. You’re wondering if his silence is amiable, but as you travel through the ice and snow together, you have a nagging feeling it’s not _._ Though… the thing that drives you insane is that you can’t really tell, can’t _really_ be absolutely certain of anything Din is feeling. The entire speeder ride to the Crest is quiet, but that’s not unusual, you suppose.

Din’s a quiet man.

These are some of the things you tell yourself to dismiss his simmering rage right until it’s impossible not to acknowledge it’s presence. It’s only when the ramp to the Razor Crest is shut that you even begin to admit that there’s something extremely odd about his silence.

“Hey, Grogu, do you want—” You’re looking down at the Kid with a smile, but before you know it, Din is snatching the Child out of your arms and placing him in his hammock. With the press of a button on a beskar vambrace the door to the cot slides closed, effectively putting an end to that conversation.

“Oyat then,” you say, turning to Din with the bacta in hand. “Let’s get these patches on you.“

“No.” The Mandalorian’s voice is calm as always, but he violently yanks the patches from you, fisting them tightly before letting them fall to the floor. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Mando!” You drop to your knees, picking them up. “Are you serious?” You’re actually _livid_. _What was even the point… after what you had to go through?_ “I got these for _you,_ you fucking—” You almost call him a baby, but you stop yourself, making a concerted effort to undo the damage. It only serves to frustrate you more, so you settle on releasing a tiny scream instead. Reasoning with yourself, you think that Din’s probably just really tired. He’s probably still in pain.

The Mandalorian crosses his arms. “Please.” How could he even dare to ask anything of you right now? Your head whips up as you glare at him. “Sir. Please. Sir.” He’s not asking anything, you realize. He’s _mocking_ you.

“You heard?”

“Helmet.” His fist clenches tighter. “I can hear most things, whether I want to or not.”

Still livid, you stand, leaving the patches on the floor, pointing a finger at his visor in accusation. “I did what I had to do to get the bacta _you_ need,” you blurt out. “And I’m not going to apologize for that. I was trying my best to help _you_.”

“You should have seen yourself,” he replies, and the poison in his typically steady voice shocks you. “Seen yourself when you approached him. Like some kind of shameless…” His voice trails off before he can finish the thought.

_Maker,_ you’re tired. It’s been two days of nonstop anxiety, of constant worrying about him and his injuries. Everything boils down to raw emotion in your veins, every little irritation and tick you’ve endured melting together until you’re just plain _upset._ “Fine,” you tell him, but there’s no bite in your tone. You’re sullen. “Do what you want.”

Ignoring Din pointedly as you unpack your supplies, you leave him standing in the ship’s hold like some sort of statue or houseplant. Honestly, you want to not give a shit—you sincerely don’t want to care—but you’re still worried. His wound was deep. Until those patches are on his skin, you can’t be certain he’s safe. Even when you’re almost done unpacking he stands in the same spot, his thick arms crossed while he watches your every move like you’re some kind of _thief._ Like some kind of _bounty._

_Why are you so turned on right now?_

“Look, are you just going to fucking stand there?” You finally bend to pick the patches off the floor. “Why can’t you just go up to the cockpit?” You hurl the patches at him, expecting him to catch them. He doesn’t. They bounce off his chestplate, dropping to the floor in a pathetic fashion. “Ok, fine, _I’ll_ go _._ I like taking off, anyways. _”_

Pushing past him, you make your way to the ladder.

The cockpit is a sanctuary after what you’ve experienced, a place away from his gaze. Throwing your jacket in the far corner, you study the dashboard and try your best not to focus on the loud clanks coming from the ship’s hold. Your blood is bubbling but it gets better as time ebbs on, your anger culling to a manageable level as you go through the various pre-flight procedures tattooed on your brain.

“I’m taking off,” you shout, only leaving a few seconds of air before you blast the thrusters.

When you’re finally floating in space, you realize that Maldo Kreis was Mando’s last bounty. He’s out of pucks. It’s only when you’re punching in the coordinates for Nevarro and easing the ship into hyperspace that it really hits: this is the last passage you’ll make with Mando— _Din—_ as his pilot.

This is the end of your deal.

“Can I... come—” His voice echoes up the hatch. “I’m coming up.”

You don’t turn in the pilot’s chair as you hear him climb up next to you. The fresh memory of your childish outburst colors your cheeks, but a righteous anger still flickers inside of you. There’s a light touch on your shoulder, and you’re spinning the seat, coming face to face—

—with his belly. His _abs._ He’s shirtless.

“Do you mind?” Din’s modulated baritone hitches as he sits, and you try not to openly stare at his broad, bare, chest or how his muscles (ok, his abs) ripple as he lowers himself down into another seat. The only part of the beskar armor Din is still wearing is the helmet. Otherwise… he’s completely bare from the waist up. In all the time you’ve spent with him, you’ve never seen this much—haven’t laid a single eye on such an extensive stretch of golden skin. “Do you mind giving me a hand with these?” He’s holding the bacta patches. After a moment, he adds: “Please.”

Part of you wants to tell him to shove off because he acted like bantha fodder but another part of you (a significantly larger part of you) aches for him and his touch… and to touch… him.

You feign reluctance, rolling your eyes. “Fine.”

“Thank you.”

His knife wound is nicely closed, but there’s a portion of the cut that’s red.

Taking the patches from him, you work on healing him, delicately running your hands over his skin and memorizing every little flinch he makes. His shoulders are barely narrower than when he wears his armor, and your heartbeat quickens as you remember him lifting you like you were nothing with just one arm early this morning, only to bring you back down onto his cock. Your stare drops to the trail of dark hair at the bottom of his abdomen, still gorgeous and rich like the last time you laid your eyes on it; you flush as you remember that _instance_ , and the _instance_ in the cot… and the _instance_ in the dark backroom—his lips on yours—him _inside_ of you—

He touches your arm. Even though you can’t see his face, you know he’s going to apologize.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he breathes out. A finger trails against your arm, and just like that, you melt. “I know why you did it.” You wait patiently for him to find his words, your hands smoothing the last bacta patch over the wound.

Calloused fingers pinch your chin, bringing your eyes up to his visor. “I just…” Hyperspace streaks the beskar helmet as you wait for him to find his voice. “I just didn’t like it when he touched what was… what was _mine.”_

You let out a little gasp. “Din, I would never have let him _._ ”

As if a dam is released, Din’s speaking too, rambling, saying too many words, and now you’re both speaking over one another, rendering the conversation completely incomprehensible and utterly useless. “Don’t think that I’m trying to control you, I just wanted to—”

Words are useless.

You silence him by climbing onto his lap, shamelessly pushing your breasts into his chest. To your credit, it definitely gets his attention. He shuts up. For a few quiet moments, all you can hear is the sound of your own blood pounding, rushing through your ears. Looking down, you run your hands down his naked chest, flagrantly feeling the lines of his toned torso as they lead to his hips.

Din’s talking again, leaning forward so the helmet is pressed against your neck; his baritone, modulated or not, always sounds richer when it’s right by your ear. “Shut your eyes,” he tells you.

You close them.

A moment later his helmet hits the floor with a reckless clang and his lips are on yours, desperate and wanting. Shifting you roughly in his lap, he struggles with your pants first; your panties come off too, his hips wind slowly up to meet yours at a continuous pace. There’s no formality to it, just a feverish fury as you collide. It’s different with so much of his skin against yours, blazing hot under your fingers as you grasp his flexing biceps.

You've never been one for displays of strength, but there's something about the effortless way he moves you—moves you with him—that makes your desire for him more intense. “I need you,” you tell him, undulating your hips back and forth, right into his crotch.

He palms your bare ass, growling. _“_ When I saw him touch you, I wanted to shoot him where he sat.”

There’s no time wasted as Mando pinches your nipple roughly through your shirt, and all you can do is whimper in return. The darkness doesn’t just come from your closed eyelids—it emanates from his tone, loud and clear. The world sways, feeling off-balance in your self-inflicted darkness. You register that Mando’s now standing but he’s brought you with him, clinging onto his broad shoulders like some sort of small creature.

“D-Din!” You wrap your legs around his trim waist for a moment, but then he’s already laying you gently against the dashboard, the cold buttons and switches resting lightly against your back.

You hear him right in front of you, feel his hands wrench your naked thighs forcefully apart. “I can’t blame him for wanting to touch you.”

“Din,” you protest. “I swear, I was never going to—”

“ _Shhhh.”_ He hushes you. “I talk. You listen.”

_Well… okay._

“I’ve told you before.”

A single, roughened, palm starts at the top of your neck, right under your chin, and you shiver as he drags it slowly down your body, over your shirt, his words sinking deeper into your skin as he moves his hand down, down, _down_. “That you’re pretty everywhere. And I’m the only one who knows you’re pretty everywhere. Who _should_ know.” His hand is so large that it almost spans the entire width of you at the narrowest points of your body; you feel so _small_ under him.

He grips your hips, hauling you roughly to your feet and turning you so that you’re facing away from him.

“Don’t look back,” he warns. 

You don’t answer, letting the streaks of hyperspace leak back into your vision as your eyes flutter open. One of his hands leaves you, and a few seconds later it lands on your ass with a swift spank.

“Talk to me,” Din says, his voice deadly serious. “Are you going to forget?”

_Weren’t you supposed to be quiet?_ “Y-yes.” You force yourself to keep staring forwards, up into the bands of stars.

“Good.”

A palm smooths over your reddened asscheek before gripping the front of your shirt, and you gasp as he tugs at the neckline, stretching the fabric to expose your sensitive breasts to the cold air. Large hands cradle your tits, cupping, squeezing.

“Fuck, just look at these,” he groans into your ear, his bare chest warm as he presses against your back. Bringing his fingers up to your face, he dips them between your lips, slicking them up. “Beautiful.” A thread of your spit snaps as he drags his fingers away from your mouth, back downwards, tracing them over your nipples again and again, wetting them thoroughly like his own mouth and tongue would.

It’s… dirty. It’s dirty how you’re letting him play with your body. He pinches your abused nipples hard then relents, petting them softly until they’re throbbing. He balances the pain and the pleasure expertly, switching between them until your mind is filled only with fog. The ribbons of light in front of your eyes are blurry, almost unintelligible with how smeared they are. It’s… humiliating, what he’s doing, and you’re fucking _shy_ , but you love it. You love giving into him, giving him what he needs.

“D-Din,” you plead. “Stop teasing.”

You hear his body shifting. And then his hot lips are against the back of your defenseless neck, sucking a bruise behind your ear. Your shoulders go limp, your hands reaching up and behind you to play with his hair.

But Din isn’t having any of that. He jerks you forwards by your hips; he’s so thick and hard, his cock brushing right up against where you need him the most. Gripping your hair tightly, he presses his other palm to your upper back, pushing you firmly forwards and down until you’re bent at the waist.

“Hands out in front of you. Keep them there.”

He commands it, his voice deep and threatening. Your hands fly out to brace yourself against the dashboard, whimpering as he _keeps_ pushing, moving you until you’re almost completely flattened against the dashboard, your spine outrageously arched.

“Spread your legs.”

You listen to his instructions until you’re positioned exactly how he wants— displayed just for his eyes.

_“_ Good girl, _”_ he exhales, groping your ass and spreading you, swearing loudly when he sees how wet you are for him. A rough thumb runs up your slit, pinching your clit for just one blissful moment before collecting your wetness and moving it _up_ your crack, up until he traces the rim of your second hole gently, slowly, once, then twice.

You’re shaking at the new sensation, an absolute mess of whimpers. His fingers are so different than yours against your most sensitive skin, so calloused, so textured and lovely. His breaths quicken at the visual.

“Do you like that?”

Your whimper of pleasure is the only response he needs.

He doesn’t press, doesn’t do anything else but circle your entrance with his thumb. Distantly, you can hear the pitchy moans you’re giving him. When the movement of his thumb stops you whine in protest, wriggling your hips up to meet his in desperation.

But then a thick finger pushes into your pussy, and your entire body shakes as your knees sink, struggling to hold up any of your weight _._ He thrusts the finger in until the last knuckle, reaching the very end of you. And then he drags it out of you equally as slow, all the way out until he’s completely gone, leaving your cunt pulsing around nothing.

“Please, Din, _please.“_

“What do you need?” He runs his hands all over your back, and you flush when you feel how wet they are with your slick. A fist remains in your hair keeping your back straight, making it so that you’re unable to move.

“Please, please, please—” You repeat the word like a mantra.

A palm lands on your ass with another loud _crack_.

“Tell me what you want,” he grits out. He tugs at your sweaty hair, making your back arch even more, making you even more shameless than you already are. “Put your legs together.”

You do as he says, pushing your trembling knees together as tightly as you can manage. “I _need_ you. Please."

“ _What_ do you need?” He’s taunting you, pulling your hair even harder, and suddenly, you hear the rustle of clothing, feel his cock, thick, long and hard, pushing through your folds—

Your body stiffens in anticipation.

You can only moan, because Din doesn’t enter you. He pushes his warm cock through your folds, parting them and hitting your pulsing clit with the head of his cock as he moves it into the slick, tight, space between your legs. You blink, trying to resist a loud moan as your eyes start to roll backwards in pleasure. “Din…”

You stop talking as he starts to thrust slowly, the thick, firm, head of his cock rubbing against your clit with every small movement. It's embarrassing how you can't think anymore—how you've been reduced to a moaning mess.

_"Not yet,_ " he bites out. "I haven’t forgiven you yet."

He just holds you there by your hair, _using_ you—using your body—only pausing when the head of his cock catches at the blushed hole of your cunt. You think he’s going to give in when he his breath hitches, but he doesn’t, releasing an loud exhale as he continues thrusting. If he could just... speed up slightly, maybe you could cum. You're dizzy, your heart fluttering unevenly, your vision blurry. You’re consumed with his teasing, wanting nothing more than for him to be inside you, filling you to the brim.

But Din starts to break.

You hear him groan long and slow, his fingers flexing in your hair, his gorgeous baritone pitching upwards as his famous discipline begins to splinter.

"Din..." You whisper again.

_“_ Why don’t you tell me what you _need_ instead of just moaning like the filthy little girl you are _._ ” His tone is tense with restraint. “Be precise.”

“I n-need you to fuck me. P-please.” You stutter as you feel yourself getting wetter and wetter, dripping down your legs, onto him. You’re already on the edge of an orgasm, hovering in the same spot—never growing nearer no matter how much you need to finish. “I n-need your cock inside me.”

He leans forwards, biting your neck. “Do I have to let you cum?” His voice is rough with danger, a low vibration across your skin. “Or can I just use you how I want, just—just _wreck_ you and cum when I want—”

“ _Anything,_ ” you admit. “Anything you want, but please just _fuck me.”_ You’re almost sobbing, but _oh,_ it feels so fucking good how fucking far he’s pushed you, how much he’s manipulated your body until it’s _his._

_“Good girl,”_ he groans out.

And then he’s pushing into your cunt, painfully slow and ridiculously thick, your eyes rolling back as you just start cumming when he breaks you open. You’re too pent up, your orgasm held on the edge for too long.

You barely hear him talking. “Oh fuck,” he swears. “Oh, fuck, are you cumming?”

He pulls out as you pulse around him, only giving you a second of relief before he’s plunging back into you, and this time, he’s not as gentle. “Fuck, you’re tight. So tight you’re pushing me out.” He releases your hair, his hands shaking on your hips as if he’s holding himself back. “Y-you have no idea, sweet girl, want to fucking _ruin_ you, want to fuck you until you can’t walk—” His voice is absolutely wrecked as he bottoms out inside of you, fingers flexing on your ass.

“Din,” you manage, completely overwhelmed with his cock shoved so far into you. You lean forwards, out of his grasp, arching your back even more; you can feel another release coming, right after the first. “Please ruin me.”

He freezes for a second, choking at the audacity of your words.

He’s all over you again in the next moment, his fingers messily rubbing your clit, his lips meeting the shell of your ear. “Fuck you feel so good.” He’s smelling your skin as he thrusts into you, setting a short but steady rhythm. “You’re so greedy for my cock, aren’t you? Look at you, cumming all over me and I haven’t even started really fucking you yet.” His words lose any control, his voice slurred as he gives into the pleasure. “Does taking my cock make you cum?”

Before you can answer, he thrusts _hard._ Your breath catches in your throat.

“Does just the thought of taking my cock make you cum?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He starts fucking you, jarring your body with his every thrust, his balls meeting your ass with every stroke.

He gives your hair another rough tug, and you’re cumming _again,_ moaning pitifully. “Please. Din. D-don’t s-stop.”

“Again?” He’s honestly surprised. “F-fuck, you’re gushing all over me. Fuck, I wish you could see this, see me fucking w-wreck you— you’re creaming all over my cock—”

You can’t even moan properly; you think you’re blacking out as another orgasm nears, and all you can hear is the sound of him fucking your slick back into you. You can hear yourself begging, still begging for him keep going.

“Oh f-fuck,” he breathes out, his breaths coming hot and fast against the back of your neck. His hips start to stutter. “Fuck—where?” He’s moaning into your ear, messily leaning his weight into you.

You love the pressure. All you can do is steady yourself on your elbows, bracing yourself as you’re forced to take the full length and power of his thrusts. “Inside me,” you beg. You’re going to cum just thinking about it.

“Sweet girl—” His thrusts grow uneven, rougher. “Y-you—”

“I’m safe, Please, inside me, please Din, I’m yours." That’s all you can say before you’re cumming again, your entire cunt clenching tight around him, throbbing. “I’m yours, just cum inside me.” _Fuck_ , everything is blurry, everything is spinning.

Din’s entire body stiffens, hands clamping painfully in your hair and on your hip as he presses himself inside of you as far as he can go, holding himself there as the thick head of his cock pulses within you. You grind your ass back into him, finding it delicious, and he’s grunting, his baritone scraping the very edges of his throat until he finally gasps into your neck, emptying his load deep inside you.

He holds himself up even after he cums, lodged firmly within you as you both float back to your bodies. A large hand flies to the dashboard, steadying you both.

The only sound in the cockpit is your breathing and his, mixing in the dim starlight. Eventually he gives your neck a few gentle kisses, and soon he’s pulling out. Neither of you talk—you don’t need to.

He breaks the silence first.

“Sorry, just—” he explains quietly, his voice sounding utterly fucked out. “I want to see.” He sits back in the chair, spreading your ass apart as you stand so he can just _look_ , just watch as his cum starts to drip from your pussy all the way down your legs. You can feel his slowing breaths on your upper thighs, still heavy and warm.

You’re soaking in bliss as the next shiver of arousal runs through you. He’s touching your clit. “Din…” You’re being spun again and now you’re being lifted, your eyes closed and your legs now around his waist as he sits, lowering you until—

“Din!” You scramble to lift yourself up, pushing down on his broad shoulders when you feel his cock, already hard again, right beneath you. “Din, you can’t just…”

“Where were we this morning?” His voice is drowsy. It’s adorable. “Want to finish?” The words are slurred, blurry with lust as he kisses you slowly, deeply. He draws you close for a few minutes, your mind levitating as his tongue explores your mouth.

You pull away. “You should rest.”

“You don’t want to?” His voice is soft, gentle, pleading. Exactly like it was this morning, in the backroom of the cantina.

“I want to.” You moan as he bites your neck softly. “I want to.” You’re not lying—you want him again. You love the feel of his bare chest as he exhales under your hands. “But you need _rest—_ ”

He brushes the edge of his sharp nose against yours, silencing you.

You feel him smile against your mouth. There’s a small hollow in his right cheek where you realize he has a dimple, a single one—one that to your knowledge no living thing has seen. Before you can wonder this out loud, Din’s bracing an arm under your ass, lifting you up, repositioning your bodies so that when you sit, you’ll bring yourself down onto his erect cock. He chuckles, moaning into your mouth as he pushes you down _,_ helping you _._

“Sweet girl. What was the point of all that bacta then?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> etchedbox.tumblr.com


	7. Searchers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update one day early! This chapter is stylistically different and in Din’s POV. It’s very small (what I phrase as a snippet), but essentially, guys... we’re heading into the second bend of this story.

Din feels as if everything is missing from his body, feels as if all he contains is smoke.

Counting the interactions where someone has asked him what lay under the armor is futile. Methods people have used to see his face range from murder to nonsensical chatter. _Are you a droid?_ _Are you just too ugly?_ There’s so much speculation. Din drowns it out. Every lover he’s taken has asked for a kiss, but he has never relented, never chanced removing the helmet in anyone else’s presence until now.

A dream.

One that visits often, more strange than terrifying. He is in the desert, his mind unlinked from his body. The suit of beskar he’s worn for so long lies prostrate in the dunes. Din is untethered, floating above it, invisible to the creatures that come and go. Finally, a hooded traveler—a scavenger—finds the armor and pries it apart with parched hands.

There is nothing inside, no flesh or blood, nothing but sand that spills from the helmet, running like dust through the traveler’s fingers.

Mandalorians are a literal people, a literal culture. Din takes the dream for what it is. On most days, it doesn’t even cross his mind.

_This_ is nothing like that.

She’s taken everything. And for once in his life, he’s given it. Their bodies meet again and again in darkness and sweat, hands clawing at each other’s skin, frantic to scrape beneath the surface.

Din? She whispers through the darkness, rolling over as he reaches for her again. Really? Again?

He needs more. Through it all he is never truly empty, because for all he gives he takes too, greedy with a constant hunger that now resides within him. It magnifies, ever expanding until it’s a force of it’s own, until the thing he yearns for most in this galaxy is the Girl’s form against his. The world shudders with life, vibrating with their existence; there is a sense of urgency every time he consumes her.

It is more than a craving.

It reminds him of a time in the desert, when after an ambush he walked with his son through the dunes of Tatooine, the soaring twin suns at his back. At the first opportunity Din had sunk to his knees and drank, the water running down his chin. Every time he takes her, he is reminded of that time.

I need you. He tells her this plainly. The Child will wake in an hour or two.

He runs his hands all over her body, liking how her breath stops. An experiment for him, a game he’s been playing for himself. Din wants to know how softly he can touch her before her heart races. He has this effect on her; he knows that now. The Girl lies on her back, on top of the blankets they’ve thrown together on the floor. Cocooned in the unlit hold of the ship she lets him worship her how he wants, lets him graze his lips against hers, tasting different sections of her skin.

Din used to trust nothing. Now he has this.

He really would have shot that man dead if he had touched her any longer.

I need to be inside you again, he says. I want you slow.

Din. She’s turning his face to hers with a hand on his cheek, kissing him. I need you to sleep.

He doesn’t let her protest any further. He knows she’s leaving tomorrow and he doesn’t know how to ask for her to stay. Instead he lifts her when he rises, not caring that his knees scrape the hard floor. He wraps her in his arms as he thrusts into her, holding her up. Despite her words she doesn’t push against him, her body softening like molten metal under his palms. She welcomes him, her thighs spread.

Even with the bacta, every muscle in his body burns with the effort of this position he is on his knees—he is on his knees carrying her weight, moving her into him while he thrusts. He wants more of her lips, of her breasts, of every part of her that in his sightlessness he can only find with his mouth. His large hands cup her back, caressing, supporting, helping her rock with him; her fingers are tangled in his hair, gripping him tightly to her chest.

Din’s never had anyone else’s sweat in his hair before. He smells like her, the perfume of her skin. He tastes of her. She tastes of him.

He whispers into her ear. Wish I could see you. Bet you look fucking good right now.

She doesn’t reply. Her hips move faster at his desire, chasing her pleasure, nudging his along. But he wants her slow so Din stills her, a hand on her hip, a supplication.

She frowns against his mouth. Am I doing something wrong?

No. He alters their position, maneuvering them until he’s sitting up straight and she’s in his lap again, her head above his. 

You really like this, don’t you?

I thought that was obvious.

That makes her giggle. He kisses her through his own chuckle. It was a joke. The truth is Din likes control. He’s always liked control. But he loses all reticence when he’s inside her; a thread snaps in his brain, a few wires pulled loose at the sensation of being within her. He wants her slow this time, wants to savor the pleasure of their act. The Kid will be awake soon. He wants to make this last as long as it can, to stretch it out like a tunnel of time. Only she can control their rhythm.

Move. He bites her neck. But slow. Remember.

She moans out his name, riding him, letting him groan as he feels her. Din, I can’t—

You can. He stays as still as is possible, pleading, smoothing his hands over her skin, allowing her to move how she wants. That’s it. Let me feel you. Take me slow. All the way. Up and down. 

He is a man dismantled. His own thoughts feel hazy, as if his brain was left in the backroom of the cantina. Din’s not a man of words, but before, he could at least express himself sometimes. Now she has taken that from him too.

That’s it. Good girl. He groans it again. Go slow. All the way to the top.

Her hips pause, stuttering in their rhythm. She whines, pulling his hair, tugging his face up to meet hers.

How am I supposed to concentrate with you talking like that?

Okay. He keeps quiet.

Please keep talking. Her breath mingles with his. I didn’t mean it. I like it when you talk.

I know.

He tells her what she needs to hear, how much he likes it when she takes him, how fucking good it feels, how fucking good _she_ feels. Under his tongue, the pulse in her neck beats an erratic rhythm, so different from the slow waves of her hips. He leans back, gliding a palm across her sharp collarbone, placing a single thumb in the hollow of her throat, grounding her. She’s so wet but he isn’t sure it’s just her anymore—he’s had her so many times it’s impossible to tell where she ends and he begins.

That’s good, he moans. You’re doing so good.

What he doesn’t tell her is that he wants her to stay. That single word evades him, a wisp of smoke rising through the air, rising until it disappears. He wants all of her inside him, forever, to fill his emptiness with what he takes from her, to gorge himself until he’s sick.

_Stay._ His mind speaks. He can’t voice it.

_Stay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> etchedbox.tumblr.com


	8. Coruscant Autumn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: some angst, SMUT, emotions, typical dust stuff! Lots of sexual tension, also mr. din-djarin-steal-your-girl makes an appearance
> 
> (Credit to the English Patient for the good line about taste… sexiest movie scene ever)

“Goodbye, Kid.”

You tug lightly on Grogu’s ear. He’s propped up on his father’s arm and blinking at you in pure confusion. Heaving the pack over one shoulder, you muster your best smile and glance up at the Mandalorian. “Be good.” It’s unclear who you’re addressing: Mando or the Kid. “Maybe I’ll run into the two of you the next time I’m in Nevarro.”

In the faint light of dawn, the Razor Crest is already starting to attract attention. You’ve just landed, but the Mandalorian has so many friends here that news of his arrival will surely spread. You watch as as the bounty hunter shifts his weight, unsure of what to say. "Where are you headed?”

“It’s unclear,” you answer honestly. "I’ll find passage to somewhere different before the morning passes.”

"I see." He pauses, clearing his throat. “The credits. I can give you more if you’re willing to wait.”

“I don’t need the credits.” The sincerity in your voice cuts through the billowing wind. “I needed an escape and I got it. Thank you.”

You mean it.

Mando takes a step forwards and for a second you think he’s going to touch you. He doesn’t. “No.” Your heart drops as he thumbs at his belt. “You should be compensated for all the work you’ve done. It’s only fair.” A small pouch is pressed into your hand. “Take it.” His gloved hand lingers on yours for a second.

_It’s not that you want to stay_. You’re used to saying goodbye. More accurately, you’ve become accustomed to being torn away from the things you love most. Although something about this situation feels different. It feels like you’re making a choice, like _he’s_ making a choice. You’ve shared so much with Din, parts of yourself that cross the boundaries of the simple agreement you both made in that alleyway. Yet when the time came to descend upon Nevarro, there was only silence from him. All his possessiveness, all of his need for you—it all seemed to vanish.

You couldn’t ask to stay. That wouldn’t be right. It’s his life, his choice. Not yours.

_It’s not that you want to stay,_ you tell yourself. Yet you waited right up until the last moment to gather your belongings, hurriedly throwing together all your material goods in a matter of minutes. As you shoved item after item into your pack, it was still unclear whether you were exactly what you feared: a needless intruder on his solitary existence.

You stare down at the pouch in your hand. Now you’re absolutely certain how Mando views you.

“Thank you. It’s been a pleasure.” Your fist clenches around the credits. “Keep the Kid safe.”

You turn, walking down the ramp. Away into the sunrise. He doesn’t stop you.

* * *

The Mandalorian finds the things the Pilot left behind in her carelessness. A shirt. A tie for her braid. A few dainty hairclips littering the ship’s hold, pointy and unnecessarily camouflaged. Standing in the fresher he discovers a bottle of perfumed oil that she’s discarded. There’s barely any left, just a few stray droplets of golden liquid that cling to frosted glass.

He pulls at the stopper.

The fragrance of it wafts into the metal box, galaxies apart from the real thing. Nevertheless it fills the Mandalorian’s head with _her_. It’s not muddled with the scent of her skin, too clean, clear, but it’s _enough._ He stands there in that capsule of time, drinking in the delicious moment, taking in the assault on his senses. Becoming ashamed very suddenly he corks the bottle and pushes it into his belt before thinking twice, slipping it right into the vacant space that the pouch of credits has left.

_I needed an escape and I got it. Thank you._

Finally, there is her necklace—the choker—which he finds on the floor of the ship, the bronze tint of it blending into the ship’s hue. In the darkness Din had removed it, greedy for her, wanting nothing more than to kiss his way down the slim column of her throat. The choker seems important to the Pilot and the noble part of Din wants to find her, to give it back—but another shard of him, a part he’s ashamed of, tells him that he can keep it. She’s far gone from Nevarro by now. It’s the most solid thing she’s left behind, something he can at least twine between his fingers. Before he leaves the ship, Mando tucks the necklace into his belt too.

“How was it this time?” Cara grins, propping her legs up on a desk in Greef Karga’s office. She’s the Marshal of Nevarro now, which Mando still finds hard to believe. “The pilot work out?”

“Yes.” Mando’s curt, his words clipped. “She was helpful.”

“You’re in a sour mood.” Karga scoffs. “You would think that after that payday you would lighten up. But then again, then you wouldn’t be our favorite Mando.” Karga busies himself once more with his paperwork, humming loudly. “Those credits should serve you well for a few moons.”

“Yes,” Mando agrees. “They should.”

When the sun begins to set, Cara leads the way towards the school to collect the Child. Soaked in the last of the dwindling twilight, the two friends walk in silence through the narrow alleys of the town. Every twist they come upon seems a revelation to the Mandalorian; there could be a surprise around the corner at any moment, but it’s an uneventful walk.

That is, until Cara pipes up again. “Didn’t think she was your type.”

Mando hesitates before he answers. Without even looking at his friend, he knows he’s already confirmed Cara’s every suspicion. “What?”

Cara is staring at him. “Your pilot. We knew each other from the rebellion. The sons and daughters of Alderaan have a way of finding other lost souls.” There’s a flicker of sadness in Cara’s eyes. “She’s a rich girl, you know. Even for our planet. Thought she would be a little brat, but surprisingly…” Cara stops walking. “Surprisingly she’s not.”

Mando comes to a stop beside Cara. “I didn’t know.”

“No, I guess you couldn’t have. She’s left that behind.” Cara shrugs. “Though didn’t you notice—” Cara gestures to her own neck. “Didn’t you notice the Chromium?”

“The Chromium?”

“Her necklace.” Cara rolls her eyes, willing him to get up to speed. “The extremely rare metal that’s on her neck at _all times?_ Everyone tells her to take it off, especially on the Outer Rim. Someone would pay a pretty credit for that even if they had to pry it off a corpse. But she said she would rather die than remove it. She’s always wearing that damned scarf because of it.”

The necklace sits in his belt, the heaviest thing Din’s ever carried in his life. He stands there, dumb like a bantha, throat constricting as he struggles to comprehend the magnitude of this information. “I… I didn’t know it was Chromium. The color of it—”

“Even more expensive,” Cara says. “But then again, I’m talking to a man who walks around clad in Beskar. Maybe you two don’t have as little in common as I thought.”

Mando shifts his gaze away from Cara’s face, concentrating on the low-slung lines that connect the vendor stalls in the alley. “No, maybe not.” There is a throbbing behind his temples, a constant ache that’s lingered since he dropped the Kid off at school.

He looks up. Starships litter the sky, coming and going, ferrying passengers up and away from Nevarro.

“Still.” Cara shrugs again. “Didn’t think she was your type.”

This time Mando doesn’t deny anything. It’s futile. Cara knows him better than most. They continue walking in silence all the way up to the door of the school.

Finally, Cara pats him on the back in the rough way that’s typical of her. “Cheer up,” she says. “Drown your sorrows in some spotchka. Maybe even take a few weeks off.”

“Doesn’t sound too bad.”

They both know that’s a lie.

* * *

Three months have passed since you’ve departed.

The entire experience feels strange, like a feeble premonition that resides in the past instead of the future; it endures on, tugging you backwards the more you try to paddle away. There are nights you jolt awake soaked in sweat, mouth wide and chest heaving. Din’s large hand is fastened to your neck, but not in anger. In the dream you open your eyes and see his face as a blur above yours: an indistinct, featureless, shape. You are crying out his name in the throes of pleasure, barely able to breathe as you give yourself to him.

“You ready?” There is a knock and a voice muffled through the door. “It starts in twenty, so we should leave now.”

Coruscant. This is where you’ve chosen to spend your time. A city you’re all too familiar with, but thankfully, you’re on the Surface. Jafan, a close friend around your age from the rebellion, had been so kind to house you. He’s done more than that. Ever since you’ve arrived he’s been nothing less than a personal guide escorting you from event to event and restaurant to restaurant. His connections span the entire city. Having solidified his position as a trade liaison for the New Republic, he lives a blessed life.

You had almost forgotten that you knew how to behave, that you knew how to live among people like this. People who laughed openly, who studied culture and politics, who ate together, slept together—who _spoke_ to one another. It’s a welcome distraction. Busy streets. Bodies. Living bodies. Lots of people. Buildings that touch the sky. Speeders everywhere you look. Vastly separate from the Outer Rim, from Maldo Kreis or Nevarro with its barren deserts and lava flats. Vastly separate from the emptiness of the stars.

By now you’ve abandoned your usual outfit for civilian clothes. Tonight was supposed to be even flashier and brighter according to Jafan; he had invited you to an exclusive performance of some Mon Calamari ballet called Squid Lake. Reaching up to touch your neck, you flinch in surprise as your fingertips meet bare skin; you had become accustomed to the weight of your necklace, of the muted pressure against your throat at all times. A few months isn’t enough for you to relinquish the memory of it, or the memory of _other_ events that still remain. More troubling, however, is that on the morning you left the Mandalorian, you didn’t even notice your choker was missing.

You open the door. “Hello.”

“Hello.” Jafan’s grey eyes drink you in, running shamelessly along your naked shoulders. “I like this dress.”

It’s nothing out of the ordinary. He’s your friend but he compliments you often and you enjoy that about him, how he’s so clear in what he wants. That said, you haven’t even given Jafan anything but a few passing flirtations. Caving to him seems inevitable at this point… just a matter of time. Truthfully, it’s impressive how you’ve resisted for this long seeing as you _are_ attracted to him. Even in this moment you can’t help but study his sharp features: the pale skin, the eyes that brim with emotion (currently admiration). There’s very little not to like.

“Thank you.” You let him wrap your cloak around you. “You look great too.” 

Jafan talks to fill the air on the walk to the Galaxies Opera House, regaling you with one of his numerous adventures since he’s left the rebellion. He’s animated, gesticulating wildly with his hands and freely gifting you his smiles. As you listen though, your mind drifts away. The low thum of the racing speeders above you thickens until it’s unbearable, lulling you into a trance, compelling you to shut your eyes for a moment. And just like that—

_You’re on Maldo Kreis, back in the darkness, back in the cantina, in that damp, cold, storage room. You feel his breath on your face, hear the brush of his clothing as he leans into you—_

_Din. Din Djarin._

“I’m glad you’re back in the Core.” Jafan mumbles in your ear. Your eyes crack open. “Pretty thing like you should be seen. Appreciated.” He draws back with a smile, one that you try your best to return.

You’re unusually quiet. Even as your host ushers you into the opera house with its grand dome and luxurious finishings, you don’t gasp, and you certainly don’t gaze up in wonder or awe. It’s because you don’t feel like you’re really there. In fact, you’re tired of feeling at the mercy of these moments that persist. You’re exhausted of replaying these memories from the time spent in Din’s presence—snippets of time that wash over you when you’re least expecting it. _When will you forget?_

The theater itself is massive and shaped like a circle. Jafan reserved a private balcony, so you sit above the rest of the audience staring downwards at the giant stage which occupies the center of the room. If you squint you can see little dots of color, people in the distance dressed to the nines.

Jafan turns to you as soon as you’re seated. “This ballet is one of my favorites.” His hand slips to your knee, gripping it through the thin shimmersilk of your dress. He slides an arm around your shoulder. “I hope you will love it too.”

“I’m sure I will.” It’s relaxing, Jafan’s touch. His fingers trace circles on the back of your bare shoulder.

Jafan draws his binoculars up to his eyes, surveying the stage. “It hasn’t been performed since the fall of the Empire. Legend has it that—”

You try to listen to him, you really do, but as Jafan explains the history of the ballet, your mind wanders again _._ That is—until he squeezes your knee, asking for your attention.

“Look,” Jafan says. His voice is tense with fear and excitement. “ _Look_.”

You look, but you don’t see what he’s so appalled about. There’s only the little dots, undecipherable at this distance.

“A Mandalorian,” Jafan finishes. He hands you the binoculars.

Grabbing them from him, you look again.

And there _he_ is. Across from you, separated by the vast gulf of the entire theater. A Mandalorian.

At that very moment the opera begins, the orchestral music rising and the hologram beaming up; you lose all sight, blinded by the sheer luminosity of the orb that now levitates in the middle of the room. Shapes begin to swim before your eyes, ribbons of light dancing through the milky light of the hologram, and as your vision adjusts— _he_ comes back into focus. He’s clouded by his beskar armor, so in truth, you can’t be certain… but somehow, you _know._ You can feel Din’s gaze on you, the familiar pressure of it on your skin. Through the binoculars, you eyes dart to study the Mudhorn branded on his right pauldron. His signet. His clan.

A Mandalorian. _Your_ Mandalorian. Goosebumps erupt across your neck, spreading down your arms like wildfire.

Jafan hastily tears the binoculars from your face. “ _Be discreet,”_ he hisses. _“_ They’re dangerous. Complete savages. Never dreamed I would see one in my entire life.” Despite what he’s just told you about being discreet, Jafan puts the binoculars to his own eyes and ogles Mando, whispering fast with a mixture of excitement and fear. “I wonder if the legends are true. I wonder how many men he’s killed.”

Your lungs are tight _;_ every breath you take is strained. The only thing that breaks through your reverie is scattered applause from the audience, foreign and disorienting in your ears.

“E-excuse me,” you stammer out. “I need to…” Jafan blinks at you in complete surprise. “I’ll be back.”

Forgetting about your cloak, you bolt towards the back, pushing past the heavy curtains that obscure the hallway from the balcony. Your hands are trembling and you consider ditching Jafan completely. Maybe you should just run out onto the street; you suddenly want to be anywhere else but here. In your panic you grip the railing, descending the stairs into the lobby. The opera house is a maze, and you faintly register that you don’t actually remember which hallway to duck into. You don’t know which path to take to find an exit. You feel physically sick, like you could throw up at any second.

Din can’t be there for you _._

You didn’t see the Kid, so that means that the Mandalorian is on assignment, out hunting a bounty. The sheer coincidence of it rattles you. _What are the chances?_ You’ve done all you can to get away from him, journeying from the Outer Rim to the Core. You’ve done all you can to remove yourself from his silence, from the words unsaid that died on your tongue that morning. You make your way down a corridor that seems recognizable enough, hoping that you’re correct—

The Mandalorian steps out fifty feet in front of you.

The walls are too bright, painted an awful hue of yellow. The tone is all wrong—too bright, too colorful—and he sticks out immediately. Mando was always the shiniest thing among the grime and dust of the Outer Rim; the beskar draws eyes, igniting the desires and the greed of other men. But here, in the hallway of Coruscant’s grandest opera house, debatably the most splendid, magnificent, temple to the arts there is in the entire galaxy, the polish of the decorations don’t obscure Mando at all; they seem fabricated in comparison, only serving to make him seem _more_ dangerous, _more_ intimidating. A man of flesh and blood so skilled in the ways of combat that there’s nowhere in this galaxy you could hide from him. For the Surface of Coruscant, the Mandalorian is too _real._

That’s what you’ve been feeling these past months, you realize. This distraction. It’s this place that you’ve chosen to strand yourself on, this gaudy aberration of life. All it took was one look at Mando for everything to fade, for you to become instantly cognizant of the falsehood of your existence. Your life is too clean now, too polished. It’s not real anymore. _Not like him._

“Fancy seeing you here.” Somehow you find your voice. “Of all places.”

The Mandalorian doesn’t respond. He tucks his thumbs into his belt.

You grow tired of waiting. All you do is wait. You press further, trying to make conversation. “Are you here for a bounty?” You two did part amicably, so it makes sense that you would be friendly.

More silence.

Finally, the helmet tilts down, Mando’s gaze resting at your feet. It tilts back up. “I like this dress.”

And just like that, the flood of moments you’ve been barely holding at bay rushes to the forefront of your mind, violently lashing through every one of your senses. Every touch, every word, every intoxicating temptation you’ve locked up inside of you comes back to visit with ridiculous intensity, and all your _anger,_ too. You know that Jafan said precisely the same thing to you tonight—that exact phrase—but the effect Mando has is vastly separate, a divergence maddening and unbelievable.

Your skin, already prickled, rises again. It’s exactly how you imagined it, his modulated voice; it’s exactly how you remember, deep and full, deadpan yet smooth. There’s not a chance of concealing your flushed cheeks so you settle on talking instead, ignoring his comment completely. “Didn’t take you as one for the arts.”

“I’m tracking someone,” Mando confirms. He pauses. “Didn’t know you would be here.”

You’re furious. Every last bit of resentment you’ve hoarded up against him over the last few months swells inside of you along with the memories. You hate him, the idea of him having so much _control_ over you and your emotions, and to take that and be so cool—so _cruel_ after all that’s happened? He’s acting like _nothing_ has happened. And _that’s_ infuriating. You’re just a toy to him, like that little metal ball is to the Kid.

It takes a moment for you to gather your wits.

You swallow, nodding. “Good,” you say. “ _Good._ Because I’m _not_ here. _”_ The words sound more childish than they did in your head. You’re unable to master your expression any longer so you turn around and walk away from him, following the path you weaved as you came. You hope it’s a reminder of how he let you leave the last time, and you don’t look back, even if you want to, even if every cell in your body is compelling you to return to him.

You’re not going to run out on the street. You’re not going to run away from Jafan or from what you’ve chosen. Even if not’s real right now, it could be. You could live here, marry Jafan, become a proper Coruscanti lady like your parents could have wanted; a person who watched opera and ballet, who sipped the last stocks of Alderaanian wine in classy restaurants—that could be you. Through sheer determination you could walk away from what you wanted, the journey eased by the consoling fact that what you wanted (him) didn’t want you in return. Those could be the last words you ever uttered to the Mandalorian. _I’m not here._

In truth, what you mean is that _he’s_ not _here._ You want to pretend he doesn’t live in your head, or in your dreams. You want to believe that he doesn’t haunt your every waking moment.

You haven’t even seen his face.

He’s not _here._

A torrent of sadness rips through you, threatening to shatter the blank mask of your face. You halt right outside the entrance to the balcony, a hand clutched to your chest as you collect yourself. Jafan’s still waiting for you. You squeeze your eyes shut. Finally, you raise a hand to part the curtains—

A gloved hand grabs your wrist.

“Don’t,” Din whispers, right next to your ear. He’s always so quick, so silent. It reminds you that he’s a killer, a hunter trained to track down prey. He stands directly behind you, the proximity of him—of his warmth—causing you to shiver. It’s hard to hear his modulated voice over the next muffled burst of applause. “Just don’t.” He pulls you backwards by your hand, away from the partition.

Only then do you turn to look at him, your eyes fixing onto the thin blade of his visor. You had almost forgotten how tall he was, how he casts your face into shadow as he seemed to block every light, encompassing you in his presence, never to be ignored. Under his grasp your body stiffens, the memory of his touch burnt into your skin. He smells clean, like linen and leather.

“Please,” he says, his voice still cool through the helmet.

Your voice, on the other hand, is a mess, shaky and almost incomprehensible. “I have to get back.” You jut your chin out in defiance. “I-I’m being rude, running out-t on my friend—” Din’s grip is gentle, but it _hurts_. You yank your wrist out of the circle of his fingers. “Let me go, _Dank farrik_.”

He moves backwards like you’ve hit him, exhaling. “Wait." Mando grabs your hand again, just for a second, pressing something into it. "Here."

You don’t look down. “More credits?” You can taste the bitterness as it fills your mouth.

He has no words for you. You stare at him, challenging him, but he says nothing more. Turning away from Din for the final time, you push past the curtains.

“Where were you?” Jafan questions you under his breath as you slide back into your seat, his smooth hand reaching out to grip yours. “I was starting to worry.”

“There’s nothing to worry about.”

It’s a poisonous lie. It’s only the first of many you would go on to tell Jafan that night, and later, you go so far as to pretend you feel ill at supper, lying through your teeth to one of your oldest friends. Even though Jafan was an officer of the rebellion, you doubt he has an inkling of your deception; you make sure to smile sweetly, pressing your wrist to your forehead. When Jafan ushers you to your bedroom you lean into him, wanting to feel his support.

“Goodnight,” he says.

At the doorway he leans in, pressing his lips to yours. His kiss is so chaste, so pure. He pulls away. "I had fun tonight.”

“I…” You can’t speak, so you lean back into him, kissing him again. All you can think about is the faceless man in your dreams. You duck your head away as Jafan grabs at your hip, his tongue threatening to dart into your mouth. “Me too,” you tell him. You place a firm hand on his chest. “Goodnight.”

At last, in the dim light of your bedroom, you scrutinize the item Mando gave you.

A note. In Basic. Neat handwriting. Coordinates.

* * *

People don’t really write anymore. People don’t really read anymore. Din knows this, and yet he needed a way. A holo seemed impersonal, data parsed through a sterile machine or worse, a _droid_. According to Cara everyone on Alderaan had an education, rich or not. The Girl surely did.

Din hopes The Girl reads the coordinates. He hopes that she knows they will lead her to the Razor Crest where he waits. He had come to Coruscant fully prepared for the fact that she might not want to speak to him, and so he had written the note with shaky hands, his fingers inexperienced and stiff as he drew out the pigment repeatedly. He had even incinerated several parchments that he found messy and unacceptable, forcing himself to write it again.

_Without a face, how do you tell someone how you really feel?_

In the pitch black of his cot, Din runs a hand over his eyes, willing himself to catch a few hours of sleep. Behind his eyelids he replays the pain that blossomed across the Girl’s features when she glared at him, the hot blood rising to her cheeks like he just prodded at an open wound. Which he supposed he had.

_More credits?_

For most of his adult life, Din has hunted bounties for credits. He has hired crew for credits. He has done many, many, reprehensible things for credits. That morning, standing on the ramp of the Crest, Din had pressed credits into the Girl’s hand, effectively reducing their relationship—what they shared—to one of transaction. He doesn’t blame her for hating him. He just can’t live with it.

He had lied to her. _Of course_ he knew that she was here. He had come _for_ her. It had taken Din much time and effort to find her in a big city like Coruscant. Even with his superior tracking skills the place had too many layers for him to canvas alone, too many sections and dilapidated corners to scour. Picking Cara’s brain for more scraps of information led Din to conclude that the Girl would almost certainly be in touch with her New Republic contacts, and he wasn’t wrong.

To the Mandalorian’s greatest displeasure, Jafan wasn’t like most men on the Outer Rim; Jafan was certainly not like the other men who had pursued the Girl in Din’s presence. Jafan Desyk, named after a great king of Naboo. Highly educated but street-smart. Handsome. Rich. _Honorable._ Watching Jafan and the Girl walk through the Coruscanti entertainment district from afar, Din had struggled to determine whether or not they were already a couple. The Girl’s fingers were linked with Jafan’s, their hands swinging lazily as they strolled.

And then Din witnessed it. A second or two, so fleeting that if he had blinked at the wrong moment he would’ve missed it completely. When the couple stopped outside the opera house, a dazed look came over the Girl’s face and she shut her eyes.

It could have been nothing or it could be everything. Din remembers that last night on the Razor Crest, when the world melted away and darkness blurred all time. The Girl was lying next to him, her breaths stuttering as she awoke suddenly. She had thought Din was still asleep when she whispered into his shoulder.

_“Din.”_ Her voice was so drowsy, so soft, uttering a confession. _“I’ve been… so… so caught up in the past. But when I’m with you… I’m only here.”_ Staying as still as he could, Din feigned sleep, straining to catch her every syllable. _“And I wish I could stay here with you. Just for a while longer.”_

Her confession was something Din tried over the many weeks to forget. But the words survived, always lingering on the edges of his mind. They eroded his sanity. _I’m only here._ He felt the same way. When he was with her there was no need for past or future. But he couldn’t tell her this. He didn’t have the courage to.

Outside the opera house tonight, Din witnessed the Girl remember him.

He was going to finally tell her everything. He had followed her and admired her from afar, doing the best he could not to attract attention. She was wearing a _dress_. She looked so pretty, and he wanted her. He has always wanted her; he doesn’t remember a time when he did not. He had wanted to tell her that he knew that Coruscant was where she belonged, but that he wanted her to come with him anyways. And when the moment finally came, he lied. He was a coward.

The next day, Din waits. The Girl doesn’t show. She doesn’t show the day after either.

It’s not a complete surprise, but it stings all the same. Maybe the Mandalorian should just leave, pack up and return to Nevarro where the Kid awaited. _What are you going to do about it?_ The voice in his head echoes. It’s been echoing since she left, like some sort of indignant conscience has decided to possess him in her absence.

It had taken several weeks for Din to admit he had done something wrong. And then it had taken him several weeks to decide what to do. He’s never had a lover before, never really had to care or foster any kind of constant connection with someone other than the Kid. After Din spent one too many nights sulking—yes, _sulking—_ even Karga gathered the nerve to say something.

“What’s wrong?” Karga crossed his arms in utter frustration. “You won’t take bounties, won’t enjoy life. You’re a gloomy fellow, Mando, but even this is low. You’re gonna give the baby the wrong impression. Are you sick, man?”

“It’s a woman,” Cara confessed on Din’s behalf.

“Well, are you just going to sit there, Mando?” Karga shook his head. “What a mess.”

“Shut it,” Din had said.

_What are you going to do about it?_

* * *

Your name is on the list.

You can see it as the holo floats above the bouncer’s wristband. Here in Coruscant, your name was something that you gave candidly without a second thought.

A midday party. You’re in a fancy restaurant, the large glass windows giving you a full view of the teeming street outside. Jafan has brought you to some event hosted by a friend of a friend. Squinting at your wine, you look up to observe your pensive companion who stands opposite you. His mood is different today; Jafan’s less cheerful, less himself. As if in defiance of the somber tension, the sun floods the room with light.

You’re just waiting for it, the moment where Jafan decides to pry into your silence. It’ll surely come.

Jafan pauses, pulling the wine glass away from his mouth. “We don’t have to rush.”

“ _Hmm_?” You pretend that you don’t hear him. You’ve exchanged nothing more than the kiss the other night. When he had asked you to accompany him today, you prayed he wouldn’t bring it up.

Like you would expect, he’s unfazed by your deflection. You can’t fool a man like him. “Did you enjoy the ballet the other night?” You nod enthusiastically when he repeats the question, but he leans forwards, trying to hold your gaze. “We don’t have to rush,” he says again. 

“What do you mean?” All you can think about is the place you’re supposed to be, the set of coordinates laid out on the note. Din has definitely realized that you’re not coming by now. Even if you didn’t end up marrying Jafan and going to fancy theaters and drinking the last stock of Alderaanian wine left in this universe—you wouldn’t go with Mando either. You could forge your own way. You always did.

“We don’t have to make it formal. Not if you need time.”

You look out of the window, avoiding Jafan’s eyes.

His voice trails away, dipping in and out as he struggles to speak. “At least not yet, if you don’t want. We don’t have to rush. You’re already… You’re already staying with me. You could move into my bedroom when you want. We can talk. We can dine together. Laugh together. Not much has to change.”

Under his watchful gaze you feel exposed, like the lies you tell yourself can’t be dispelled any longer. You pretend to fumble with the thin straps of your white dress, gulping down the remainder of your wine.

Jafan keeps talking. “We can do all the things we’ve already been doing, but more. You could… You could work at the flight school. If you wanted. If you didn’t, I would still have more than enough for the both of us. You could do whatever you want. You could fly whenever you want. We could buy a ship.”

The devout nature of his proposal makes you shut your eyes.

You hear him swallow nervously. “These past few days, I’ve come to understand what’s between us.”

Your eyes crack open. You’re actually curious. “What is between us, Jafan?”

He takes a large sip before continuing. “It’s respect.” Jafan swirls the amber wine, and your eyes latch onto the moving liquid, following it as it spins round and round. "It’s respect. And it’s attraction.” Finally looking into his eyes once more, you find that you can’t deny his statement. “And if you give me a chance, I promise—I _promise_ that it can be more. But you can’t sit here with me, can’t spend every moment of your free time with me and pretend that it doesn’t exist. You can’t kiss me and then hide. This isn’t some Jedi mind trick. There is something here, and I’ll go crazy if you don’t at least acknowledge it.”

_That._ It’s everything you’ve been needing to hear. It’s just not _who_ you’ve been needing to hear it from.

Jafan pulls you towards him by your hand and presses a tender kiss to your lips. You almost flinch. Guilt immediately slams into you. _He’s right_ , you think. He’s right about it all. To pass the last two days, even though you’ve tried not to, you’ve compared them constantly: Din and Jafan. You’ve spun circles in your own head. You’re not even sure what you want any longer.

Jafan tastes like the wine, clean, crisp, and expensive. He leans back, his lips leaving yours.

You watch as he sips at the wine again. "There is something here,” you admit.

You’re not lying—there is _something_ —but the hope that flickers across Jafan’s face is disproportionate to your simple acknowledgement. “Maker,” he sighs. “Look, if you need time to think…” He puts down his glass. The light of the sun beams through the amber liquid, casting flickering shapes onto the white table. Your focus is brought back to Jafan as he grabs both your hands in his. They’re warm. “I don’t mean to hurry you. I want you to think. Let’s… Let’s talk about it further tonight.”

You nod in relief. “Yes.” Signalling to your empty wine glass, you stand. He tries to stop you like the gentleman he is, but you shake your head. “No, please stay. I can get my own drink. Please let me.”

There’s a back alley outside the restaurant where you find your peace. It’s not like a ship’s cockpit or the stars. There are still a few people walking by the opening of the alley which spits out onto a busier street in a busy city. The chatter—all the noise that’s in your mind—reverberates all around you. You rest against the wall, putting most of your weight on the crown of your head; the white silk of your dress is so fine that you can’t risk snagging it.

_We don’t have to rush. We could buy a ship._ Din would never say such things. He was never a man of pretty words. You don’t know why you keep wishing for that. Dabbing at the sweat on your neck, you feel like a fool.

“You didn’t come.”

Your face turns as the Mandalorian steps into the alleyway.

Dread fills you. After all, it was dumb of you to assume he would just leave. He’s a bounty hunter. He is _always_ going to find you.

“Rude.” His baritone is full and steady. If you weren’t so confused, you would laugh.

_Maker,_ you really don’t need this. You start blathering the first thing that comes to your mind, turning your face away.

“I—I have things to do, Mando,” you say. “I thought that was clear when I didn’t come, when I read that note and burnt it to a fucking crisp—”

“I can’t sleep.”

You don’t reply because he starts to move, walking towards you in silence. His cape sways with every step he takes, every inch he moves closer to you. You still refuse to look at him, fixating on the long shadow he casts. Just like you knew you would cave to Jafan eventually, you know you would cave to Din now. You’ve always known that.

He doesn’t come too close. He stops when you’re just out of his reach. The helmet remains pointed at your face as you cower from his sight.

“Look at me.” The Mandalorian’s breath crackles through the modulator. “Go on,” he says, his voice rising. "I dare you.”

That you can’t refuse. It’s in your nature; you’re stubborn and fierce to a fault and you can’t back down from that. So you finally look at him, staring straight up into the visor. “Mando, I have things to do. I have my friend waiting for me.” Your expression turns to steel, and your eyes dart away, then back. “I have a life here, I’ve just started it, and I _like it,_ Maker, I like my life—”

“I can still taste you.”

His words cut right through yours.

Your eyes dash to his helmet. He doesn’t move his head. The shiny beskar helmet glints under the sunlight. Confidence emanates from him, deadly and calm.

He steps closer and there’s nowhere for you run as he cages you in against the wall, towering over you. Still… he doesn’t touch you. You shut your eyes, but the truth is... you want to look at him. You always do. He doesn’t touch you. He just lets his words linger, poisoning the air you breathe, weaving it with temptation.

“I’ve been trying to hunt with your taste in my mouth.” 

Now your own mouth falls open and you’re actually shaking, and even though instinct forces you to look away in embarrassment, your eyes are drawn instantly back to the helmet, back to where his eyes must be. You want to push him away. You want to _slap_ him. Even _that_ is sexual, you realize.

“Come with me,” he whispers, the deepness of his tone filling your chest. The modulator highlights his every breath, every quick inhalation he takes. You shut your eyes against this utterly persuasive and ridiculous request. He’s said nothing—all of ten words—but you already want to give in. “Or tell me to stop.”

Trembling with the sheer effort it takes to not touch him, you draw your hands behind your back, squeezing them together, locking them against the wall.

“Go on,” he urges.

_Why are you so flustered?_ There’s no denying the effect he has on you; your own flushed reflection stares back at you in the thin, dark, glass of his visor. Mando corners you, making you feel small in the way he always does. Your shoulders are tense, your chest pushed out as you clench your hands together behind your back. The helmet tips down slowly, watching your nipples pebble through the thin material of your dress.

It’s futile. You try to form the words, but your need for him is so obvious, so palpable. So you don’t tell him to stop. You just watch as he tugs the glove off his right hand—his dominant hand, the one that fires most of his shots—and tucks it into his belt.

He braces his other arm right above your head, the beskar vambrace landing against the wall with a dull thud.

You stay quiet. You think he might grab you—handle you in that rough way he typically does, but… no.

Everything’s so… slow. Time melts away. It doesn’t exist. The alley fades as he stares down at you and you stare up at him. The noises, the people, the speeders… it all vanishes.

The Mandalorian’s hand, usually so quick, typically so fast, reaches up achingly slow, moving up to your naked throat. He hasn’t touched you yet. His fingers, his warm palm, they ghost over your skin, drawing more goosebumps from you. There's no actual contact. You can feel the heat emanating from his bare hand, and you shiver, your eyelids fluttering.

Finally he pushes a thumb ever so gently into the hollow of your throat, your breath stuttering as he begins to trace a tiny circle there, the rough pad of his finger catching on your skin. His helmet is tilted down at a sharp angle as your head rolls back even further, baring your neck to him. He’s studying you so closely—it’s as if all of Din’s concentration is focused on this moment, on this minuscule patch of skin at the most vulnerable part of your body. Your mouth goes dry, falling open once again. Breath fogs his visor.

You’ve watched the Mandalorian kill others with his hands. You’ve seen what he can do. Yet his touch on you is soothing, so gentle, filling you with relief as he starts to draw his fingers delicately across your collarbone, back and forth, intent on sketching the sharp line of it. His hand moves to your shoulder, to the thin, flimsy, strap of your dress, pausing for a moment. He dips a single finger under it, toying with it, playing with the friction the silk creates against your nipples as your dress shifts an imperceptible amount. He could snap it with a small tug but he doesn’t. He just lets it go, moving back to trace your collarbone.

You’re not breathing anymore. You don’t remember how. Instead, you just say his name.

“D-Din.” It’s a warning and a plea. _Please stop. Please keep going._

“Are you wet?” He murmurs.

Your head jerks; it’s neither a shake or a nod. You both stay frozen, his fingers resting lightly on your throat.

He withdraws his hand. The helmet stays trained on your face as he kneels slowly, bending one knee until it hits the ground. Your legs are weak when see him lowering himself in front of you, your body dizzy with the sight of this powerful warrior in service of you. His bare hand ducks under the hem of your long dress, lifting it off the floor.

You bite back a gasp when rough fingertips skim your ankle. You steady yourself against the wall as his large palm slides up, up along your calf, trailing a path upwards… Din begins to stand, and as he rises his hand follows, dragging past the ridge of your knee, up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, up until your skirt is bunched around your hips and he’s towering above you…

His fingers dip between your drenched folds.

It’s the answer to his question. He growls a next. “For me?”

You wince, but not in pain. A sharp pleasure shoots through your veins, disorienting after so long without his touch. You find it in yourself to nod.

Neither of you say anything more for a while. His helmet is lasered onto your face with a certain intensity, not missing a single one of your expressions as he starts slowly circling your clit. You bite your lip, willing yourself not to cry out, your fingers grasping lamely at the wall. He presses two fingers against the swollen bud, and a moan escapes from your lips—

—he muffles it by placing his other hand over your mouth, the leather of his glove drowning out the noise. “ _Shhh._ You have to be quiet.”

You nod hurriedly. You know that. And you don’t want him to stop. His hand eases up over your mouth, but you don’t attempt to speak, afraid of what you will say.

He groans, his baritone dipping even lower. “Why aren’t you wearing anything under this dress?”

You struggle for air. “The lines. They show through—”

“You look like a lady,” he grits out. “But you’re still so wet for me. How are you so _wet?”_ Another moan escapes you, and this time his gloved hand clamps over your mouth with more force. He pushes a finger into your mouth, the bitter tang of leather tainting your tongue. “Keep it there. Bite.”

You nod again, pursing your lips around his finger—and he pulls his hand away, unsheathing it from the glove, leaving it limp in your mouth. It’s a surprise, but the action, the dirtiness of it… it sends a shock right between your legs. At that same moment he decides to push a finger slowly inside your cunt, filling you. You stare up at him, your moans muffled and your vision blurring as he begins to thrust his finger in and out, his thumb still circling your clit.

“Hold this up.” His left hand grabs yours, forcing it back to the material bunched at your hips. “I want to see you.” He takes his hands off you and steps backwards slightly, the helmet tilting down to your thighs. You feel utterly exposed, helpless, pinned to the wall by some invisible force. Your fingers shake,and you almost drop your skirt—but he reaches out to fist a hand in your hair, yanking your face up, forcing your eyes to his helmet. “Don’t drop it,” he says sternly. “You’ve made a mess.” He looks for a moment, just admiring the way your chest heaves with his glove still between your lips. When he speaks again, the restraint is clear in his voice. “I want you…” He presses himself to you. You feel his hardness on your bare thigh. “But not here.”

He leans in so close that the beskar helmet is pressed to your cheek. His hand reaches for yours again, loosening your fingers, letting the hem of your skirt fall back to the floor.

The sound that comes from you is desperate, needy. He pulls his glove from your mouth, a chuckle escaping him as you whine. He silences you again by pushing his soaked fingers past your lips, making you taste yourself, making you clean him up.

And then… and then he begins to fix you, brushing the hair out of your face, tugging on your skirt and the straps of your dress. It’s… gentle. Your heart swells at the actions.

His hands grasp yours. Your legs are unsteady as he tugs you against him, shifting your weight from the wall to his sturdy body.

“Come with me,” he says. “I came to get you.”

You try your best to find his eyes through the visor. “There is no bounty?”

“No.” His hands squeeze yours, his breath hitching. “No, there is no bounty.” His grip is so tight it almost hurts. “Only you.” He’s nervous.

He’s not a man of pretty words.

_But,_ you think, _that’s okay._ He’s asked you to come with him and that’s enough. It’s not too late.

“Alright.”

Din exhales then, and you can feel the relief flood his body, his shoulders easing downwards. “Alright.”

“Alright,” you repeat. “I have to… I have to—” _Jafan._

“I’ll be waiting.” He nods. “The coordinates—”

“I didn’t incinerate the note.” You pull away from Din then, because if you don’t you’ll never leave. You walk away but this time it feels good.

“Uh—” He calls out after you. His hand is on his hip when you look back, and he’s staring at the ground. “Can you—uh-maybe—you could…” He shakes the helmet. “Forget it.”

You roll your eyes. “I’ll bring the dress.” You give him your best smile, enjoying how he freezes. “See you soon.”

* * *

“Put your hands up and drop the packs.” The Criminal sneaks up behind you as you walk through the dark shipyard, pressing the barrel of his blaster to your spine. _Fuck._ “Unless you have a blaster under that pretty dress, and I don’t think so—I wouldn’t try anything.”

“Do you want credits?” Of course _you_ of all people would get _mobbed_ on the way to the Razor Crest. You thought the hardest part was over; Jafan’s forlorn expression as you told him you were leaving is still etched into your mind. “I’ve got credits.”

“I want everything.” The Criminal’s voice rings out again. “Drop the packs. Come on, sweetheart, we don’t have all day.”

You slide the packs off your shoulders. You should’ve changed before you were targeted. It wasn’t your brightest idea to wander far into the city dressed like you were, but Din seemed to really like the way you looked. It’s okay, you reason with yourself. It’s not the worst thing that could happen, or the saddest thing. All things considered, you’ve had a good day.

“Drop the blaster.”

Din’s voice comes from the shadows of a nearby ship. Your eyes widen as he appears _,_ stepping out of the darkness, his shiny beskar armor glinting in the little available light. For once you’re able to mask your surprise.

“Don’t lay a hand on her,” Din says. “I would start running now, if I were you.”

“What’s this?” You can’t even see the Criminal behind you, but you can hear the fear in his voice as he takes in Din and the beskar armor. “A Mandalorian?”

“Yes.”

Din lets the Criminal marinate in this information.

The Criminal scoffs. “A Mandalorian with a lover?”

“Yes,” Din says.

You shiver, and not because of the blaster pressed against your temple.

“Well, take off that beskar armor or she dies. I’m not in the mood for a fight.” You see Mando raise his hands up in placation of the Criminal’s request, and you try to offer up a timid smile to console him. “Take off the beskar, Mandalorian, or I’ll—”

Mid-sentence and quick as lightning, Din throws a knife right beside your head. It lands on target, embedding itself in the Criminal’s skull with a sharp thud. You squeeze your eyes shut, stalling your active imagination as you hear a body crumble to the floor behind you.

“Don’t look,” Din tells you. “Let’s go.”

“I’m sorry.” You shake your head. “I should’ve changed.”

“No,” Din says. “You shouldn’t have.” He takes the packs from you, his gloved finger tracing the strap of your dress as he shoves at your hip, moving you along.

The second you enter the Crest, Din is all over you. All the patience, all the restraint he showed in the back alley disappears. He makes that clear by shoving the straps of the dress off your shoulders and stripping you, pushing you against the wall before the ramp is shut.

“Close your eyes,” he commands. You don’t really have the option to protest, because you see his hands fly up to his neck, grasping at the edge of his helmet—

You hear it fall to the floor with a clang. You’re completely naked as he kneels, bringing your feet completely off the floor and hooking your thighs over his broad shoulders, over his pauldrons. Your fingers tangle in his hair as you’re lifted _up,_ your back still sliding against the wall when his hot mouth finds your hot center, licking at you, tasting you.

“ _Fuck.”_ His hands keep your inner thighs apart. “Fuck I missed you.”

“Din, be g-gentle—” You gasp as his shoulder shifts under your leg, and you know he’s touching himself, moaning loudly as he brings you to a climax with his mouth. “D-din—”

It doesn’t take long for him to make you cum. He laps up your liquids greedily, groaning against you the entire time as you squirm, pinned against the wall as his hands wrench your thighs apart. As soon as you’ve ridden out the last wave of your orgasm, he drops you to your feet unceremoniously. He stands, and you scramble with his armor, his shirt, his pants—

When he enters you, it’s not slow. You’re too tight after so long without him, and your nails dig into his thick bicep as he holds you up, your legs wrapped against his trim waist as hot breaths come fast against your neck. You’re _tight,_ and his growl as he sheaths himself to the hilt tells you as much. “Why… why are you so—”

“It’s been a while,” you pant out, latching your lips onto his. “Didn’t… Didn’t really touch myself. Was trying not to think about you.”

He groans your name, broken and needy against your neck. He slows his thrusts, and when he speaks again, it sounds like he’s drowning. “Come on, sweet girl… You can take me.”

Din fucks you raw for the rest of the night, gracing every surface of the Crest; he takes you in the cockpit and again in the shower, pushing your chest against the cold wall before slapping your ass. Your lips are chapped from kissing him, your pussy swollen from how many times you’ve satisfied him and yourself. Finally you lie on the floor beside him, exhausted and spent in the best way. The lights are dimmed but your eyes are still shut.

“Let me—” He holds you closer, nuzzling your neck, his nose pushing against your jaw. “Just one more.“

“Din,” you whine out. You flip so you’re lying on your tummy. “My legs can’t…”

“Just…” His fingers drift over your shoulder blade, rough and textured. You shiver. “Just lie there. I’ll… I’ll do all the work. Is that okay?”

_Maker,_ he asks so shyly, his baritone shaky… it’s impossible to refuse.

You nod.

You let him push some material under your hips—his cape, you realize—propping your ass into the air with it before he straddles your upper thighs from behind, moaning as he enters you again. A large hand fists in the hair at the top of your head, arching your spine further and tilting your head backwards so he can whisper into your ear. “Is that good?”

His voice is so quiet. You’re flat on your tummy and his weight is on top of you, effectively pinning you to ground. It should be uncomfortable, but it’s _not_ —it makes you feel surrounded. Protected. Helpless, unable to do anything but take what Din gives you.

“Do you like how deep I am inside you?” His hips don’t move fast. They work in leisurely waves, working his cock so deep inside of you with impossible restraint, again and again.

“ _Yes._ ”

He tugs at your hair, growling. “Fuck, you feel so good. Look so good.” You feel a hand spread your ass cheeks, so massive against your body, and even though he’s had you so many times before, you blush at his words. “You always look so good.” Every thrust of his hips works his balls against your clit, and you see stars behind your eyelids as he _pulls_ at your hair again, roughly, growling once more. “Your pussy is so messy, sweet girl, so fucking wet—” His voice pitches and all you can do is gasp, your hands grappling for purchase on the floor. All you can hear are his breaths, desperate and needy behind your head and the slick of your sex as he fucks it back into you. “Fuck, it’s so creamy, your pussy is so creamy, so fucking—”

You cry out, your eyes cracking open for just a second—

In theory, you should have absolutely no chance of seeing him. He’s _behind_ you.

Ironically, it’s because of his helmet.

It lies on the floor of the Crest, almost directly in front of your bodies, and you glimpse the image reflected in the glass visor for just a second. You see yourself, your slim frame caged by his broad frame, your face contorted in pleasure as your body is pressed against the blankets on the floor. It’s not just _feeling_ small anymore. You can actually see how he’s pinned you down, one hand braced against your shoulder, his large body cocooning you completely. You see his other large hand, so big it’s almost the size of your face, twined in your hair, wrenching your neck back. And you see the strong jaw, the patchy facial hair, his _lips,_ so full, so swollen from kissing you everywhere, and the thin mustache above them—you see his lips move as he keeps whispering filth in your ear—and thank Maker the visor ends there, chopping off his eyes, slicing off the reflection in the middle of his prominent nose.

You can tell he’s beautiful. You shut your eyes again and _cum._ You haven’t seen all of his face, but it’s enough. You didn’t think you had it in you after the number of times you’ve already orgasmed tonight, but you cum so _hard_ , clenching around him, hearing his breath hitch as it happens—

“ _Fuckkkk, you’re tight.”_ He pulls your hair up so he mouth meets your ear, murmuring softly. “Do you want me to cum inside you?” Your entire body is twitching. “Do you want me to fill this tight little pussy?”

“Yes, Din,” you whine, squeezing your eyes shut.

“Do you want my cum? Tell me.” His voice is so fucking quiet as he growls.

“Yes, please.”

The points of his hips push into your ass, and you feel his cock harden even more inside of you. You feel him pulse into you, groaning, his big hands squeezing you.

When he collapses on top of you, the air is knocked out of your lungs. “I-I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “Fuck, I’m so _tired._ Let me just...” His weight leaves you, and you hear him reach for something before the lights go off.

“Din.” It’s pathetic how much you need him, how you can’t be away from him.

“I’m here,” he replies. He lies next to you, holding you, pulling the blankets over you both. You rest your head on his chest. “I’m here.”

Both of you lie there, your breaths evening out and syncing as the minutes drip by. And for the first time in months, you both fall into a deep slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> etchedbox.tumblr.com


	9. The Wild Pair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Smut. Breathplay, purity kink/daddy kink (easing into it), humiliation, sex in a pretty public place, dom Mando, breeding etc etc. also, weapons are Din’s religion 🤭
> 
> A/N: Evenly split between Din’s POV and the Girl’s (reader’s). This chapter has absolutely no plot. Definitely skip it if you don’t want pure smut. This has just been a headcanon of mine since season 1 when Din vaporizes those jawas with his rifle, and then when he is scoping out the bounty on Tatooine. Oof. Did I set up the rifle stuff just for this? Yup. 100%. Be sure to read this tiny tidbit for after the end of the chapter here.

When Din wakes up, they haven’t yet arrived. He’s as well-rested as he can be considering he hasn’t slept properly in months _._ A delicious heaviness sets in his limbs as he stretches out on the floor, his limbs unfurling around the Girl.

As a pitstop on the way to Nevarro, Din has a bounty to pick up on Arvala-7. The Girl is still sound asleep by the time he’s dressed in his armor, so he carries her to the cot, taking extra care to wrap the blankets snugly around her bare form. Trying his hardest not to wake her with the ship’s descent, Din presses a quick kiss to forehead in the darkness.

To his great displeasure, she stirs. “Are we…” Clumsy in sleepiness and uncoordinated without her vision, the Girl reaches for him, her fingers bumping bluntly against his stubbled cheek.

He pulls away, fastening the beskar helmet onto his head. “Sleep,” he tells her, his tone dry through the modulator. “I need to make a stop for a bounty. I’ll be back before noon.”

“That’s quick.” Her voice is drowsy.

He doesn’t tell her that it’ll only be quick because of her. When she left him and missing her had driven him to distraction, bounty hunting had taken Din twice as long as normal. Now he has a reason to finish these jobs fast. Pressing a button on his vambrace, Din basks the entire Crest in a dim yellow light. The Girl shields her eyes from it and groans, adjusting. The top of her bare shoulder, the plane of it smooth and beautiful—is still peeking out from underneath the blankets. Din runs his eyes greedily over it, already wanting to fasten his lips to that perfect patch of skin.

Instead he clears his throat.

“I’ve landed next to a moisture farm. It once belonged to a friend, but it’s now empty,” he explains. “You can take the morning to explore the surrounding area if you’re bored. Keep your distance from the blurrgs. You’ll know them when you see them. The weapons cabinet is full, and should you need it… there’s a beskar spear.”

The corners of the Girl’s mouth twitch upwards with amusement at his last words. “Yeah. Because I totally know how to use that thing.” A dainty toe nudges out of the covers to poke at Din’s armored thigh. “If it comes down to me trying to using that, I’ll hope you’re already close.”

True to his word, Din finds the bounty in no time at all. In this case it’s a bail-jumper who comes willingly back to the ship once he hears the persistent beep of Din’s tracking beacon; the bounty even goes so far to tell the hunter that he actually looks forward to the kiss of carbonite.

The Razor Crest is empty when they arrive back, the area completely devoid of all human heat signatures. Once the business is dealt with, Din surveys the remnants of Kuiil’s farm. The sun is high in the sky and the Girl is nowhere to be found. So Din settles on waiting, eating, wondering the entire time where she could have gone. He thumbs at the metal choker in his belt, pondering when would be the best moment to return it.

Somewhere in the late afternoon Din realizes the Girl has no intention on hurrying back to him. He struggles not to be too grumpy at the revelation. Even if she went to explore, she can’t be too far; the crags and canyons of Arvala-7 are too treacherous for any human to trek far on foot. Reluctantly, when the Mandalorian can no longer tell himself that he isn’t worried, he pulls out his telescope and spots the Girl resting in the distance, her back propped against the ridge of a shallow cliff. Apart from the lizards that scurry away from his heavy footsteps, she’s the only living thing in sight.

The Girl beams at Din when she sees him trekking towards her. “Mando!” She calls down from the edge of the cliff, waving her arms excitedly. _Honestly, she’s just as bad as the Kid sometimes._ “Or—” She looks around, canvassing the landscape. “Can I say Din?”

“That’s fine,” he grunts back. “We’re alone.” He climbs up the rocky cliff face with ease. The Girl extends a hand to help him up, but he brushes it away. “Where were you?”

“Oh,” she says, noting the obvious annoyance in his voice. She finishes the last bite of a bright fruit she’s been munching on. “I was exploring just like you said. I even took a snack with me.”

“I said I would be back at noon.” His irritation begins to fade as he notices the shade of her skin, more golden than it typically is, flushed prettily from being under the sun all day.

“You did?” In her confusion the Girl looks radiant, the tops of her high cheekbones glowing as she tilts her face towards him. Her dark hair is undone from its braid, spilling loosely over her shoulders. Din clocks that she’s wearing those stretchy pants, the ones that don’t even need a belt; they hug the shape of her, conforming to every curve and dip of her lower half.

“Yes,” Din says. “I told you this morning when I left.”

“I remember you leaving, but…” Guilt swims over the Girl’s face, her mouth pressing into a thin line. “I’m sorry. I don’t really remember details when I’m half-asleep.” She offers him an apologetic smile. “Sorry Din.”

He shouldn’t find that as cute as he does.

“It’s alright.“ He gives in far too easily. He sits, placing the rifle on the ground beside him.

“Sorry,” the Girl repeats. She’s fluttering those long lashes now, gnawing on her lips. “If I remembered, I would have…” Her voice trails off as she abandons her sentence. She reaches for him, twining her small fingers with his gloved ones. _If I remembered, I would have been waiting for you._

“It’s alright.” Din brushes the hair back from her face with his other hand, making sure to trace his fingertips over her scalp and savoring the delicious little blush that spreads out over her cheeks. _Him. He_ did that to her.

“Din,” she whispers, looking away. Her lips are stained a deep shade of pink from the fruit, and Din’s mind immediately flies to where else she’s that pink. “Can you tell me more about this place? I didn’t get to ask you before we landed.”

“Arvala-7?” He looks around. “Well…” He thinks. “I came here to get the Kid when he was still a bounty from the Imps—” Din’s voice levels out as he continues his story, but it’s pure deception. He feels his cock harden as he turns his eyes back to the Girl’s sweet face. She’s looking at him, _listening._

There are so few people in this world that actually listen to Din, at least when not motivated by fear. But the Girl listens all the time. She truly hearshim, and it makes Din feel like the most important man in the galaxy. It’s the way she gives him her undivided attention, as if the sparse words that spill from his mouth are the most interesting thing she’s ever heard, or that they require the utmost concentration to comprehend.

It’s impossible not to want her right now with the way she’s staring at him. Her bright eyes fixate on his visor in admiration, her pink lips parted in awe as she nods and urges him to continue. In these moments the Girl looks so innocent, as if she needs Din to teach her everything.

Everything. She needs him to teach her _everything_. She needs him to be patient. During these little explanations of his, Din somehow always ends up imagining the most lewd scenarios; it’s like all the blood in his body rushes to his cock in one instant. _Like this, Din?_ He can hear her questions. _Am I doing this right?_ He can see her bent between his legs, eyes teary and cheeks flushed as she forces his cock further down her throat. _Am I making you feel good?_ He could make the Girl ride him facing away, her tiny waist arched as she sits back onto his length, struggling to fit all of him inside her tiny little hole. _Do you like this?_

His hand twitches as the images run through his head; her fingers are still interlinked with his, her hand dwarfed by his own. 

_Din, please. I want to be good for you._

By the end of his explanation, Din barely knows what he’s saying anymore.

“—and so that’s how the moisture farm came to be,” he finishes. “I stop by every few moons to keep it tidy. To honor Kuiil.”

The Girl nods and makes a sound in her throat, a high hum. “Thank you for telling me. I appreciate it.” She’s still blushing. Now he’s flushed too, not that she can tell when his helmet’s on.

“Of course, sweet girl.” Before he can stop himself, Din reaches out and brushes a thumb over her cheek.She gives him that shy smile in return. _He wants to wreck her._

He’s too tempted, so he pulls his hand back to himself and they sit in silence, his cock throbbing in the confines of his pants.

“Din…” The Girl’s voice is breathy. It must be from the effort of walking all morning. “Can you show me how to… how to hit a target from a far distance? With your rifle?”

This surprises him. It turns him on even more. In fact, it stuns him into silence.

Silence that the Girl mistakes for anger.

Slowly, she unwinds her fingers from his. “Nevermind,” she says, shaking her head. Her voice is coy, so… _embarrassed._ There are times where the Girl can be feisty, so fucking mouthy that Din has to resort to punishing her. This is not one of those moments. In this moment she’s truly shy, and he reminds himself that she’s so _soft_ under it all. So kind. She throws herself into everything—into life—so fully, incapable of holding back even a little. She tries so hardto be _good._

“Forget it,” she whispers.

“Yes,” he replies through gritted teeth. His fist clenches on his knee, the leather of his glove creaking at the sudden motion. “Yes, I can teach you.” And because he knows he can’t control his savage impulses while looking at her, Din surveys a few rocks on the opposing cliff. “Why don’t we practice with those?”

“Oh,” she exhales. “I didn’t mean now—”

“Prop yourself up.” Din cuts off her surprised reply and points to the ridge on the opposing cliff. “On your elbows and knees. And look out at those rocks.”

Without a single word of protest, the Girl does exactly as he says. She lowers herself onto her front, bracing herself against the edge of the cliff until her tight ass is perked in the air, dangling in temptation. Din ogles the curves of her body as he stands, shifting so he’s directly behind her. He keeps his thumbs tucked firmly into his belt, stopping himself from reaching out and moving her.

The Girl turns back to look at him over one shoulder, her face still beautifully flushed from the sun. She looks so _good,_ like a treat made just for him.

The Girl blinks up at him for approval. “Din.” When she speaks, her voice is shaky. Uncertain. “Am I doing this right?”

* * *

You knew all about Arvala-7.

Well, not about Kuiil. But you knew about the planet. You knew about its peaks and valleys, it’s desert landscape and the jawas which roamed over it, scavenging unsuspecting ships and capturing passerbys.

You just wanted to hear Din talk. You like it when he talks at length, when you can hear his breath hitching through the modulator as he pauses and regroups his thoughts. The thing is, Din doesn’t really talk very much. He’s the silent type. And so you’ve resorted to tricking him into it whenever you can, asking the silliest questions that you should be completely ashamed of. It’s utterly shameless. It really is.

But you can’t really find it in your heart to actually feel guilty. Not when Din’s so patient—so _unbearably patient_ —with you. Right now he hovers over you, so tall and big, so strong. He always makes you feel so small.

“Yes, that’s good,“ he tells you, a shiver running down your legs as he approves your position. Suddenly, you feel his hand press on your upper back, grounding you further onto your elbows. “Do you feel the earth beneath you? Push yourself further up on the ridge now.”

You adjust and nod. He bends to pick up the rifle from the ground, leaning over you to place it in your hands. Nodding again, you hope Din mistakes your breathy stutters for nervousness. “Y-yeah. I feel it.” You’re practically taking advantage of the man. You don’t want to think about what it means that you enjoy him teaching you so much.

Truthfully, you’ve been wet since he got frustrated with you. So… since he’s climbed the cliff.

That’s the thing about Din. He’s actually a bit of a hothead sometimes. Impulsive. Passionate. His temper flares fast—you know this. But when you ask, and when you ask _nicely—_ it’s like he stoppers up all that frustration and bends to whatever request you have, calming himself down just so he can teach you one thing or the other. It’s similar to how he is with the Kid. Protective. Unbearably patient. Kind. _A good father._ Your flush deepens at that last thought.

“Yeah, I definitely feel the ground,” you breathe out. You point the long barrel of the rifle over the ridge, towards the rock on the other side.

“Yeah?” He stands over you. “Good.”

It doesn’t help that his voice is so kriffing _low._

You can feel the wetness pool between your legs, sticking to your panties as you lean forward, pressing an eye to the scope.

“Don’t forget to turn off the vaporization,” he reminds you sternly, still hovering. He can be so domineering sometimes, so controlling. “You want to shoot the rocks, not turn them to ash.”

“Right.” You pull away to flick the little switch at the rifle’s base. “Ok… so now…”

“Look into the scope,” he instructs. “Keep your bodyweight low. Now try to hit that rock right in front of you—”

Before he can finish his sentence, you squeeze the trigger. Your body jolts backwards with the force of the rifle’s shot, your knees and elbows scraping on the rocky ground.

_“Dank farrik,”_ you gasp out in surprise.

Din drops to his knees beside you, grabbing your elbow. “Are you alright?”

You nod and bite your lip, your eyes tearing up at the flare of pain. You wince as he smooths a finger over your elbow, blinking up at him as he clicks his tongue. Luckily, the pain disappears as swiftly as it came.

“Sweet girl, I don’t want you to get hurt.” You can hear the concern in his voice. “Maybe we should try another time—”

“No.” Stubborn as ever, you shake your head. Your eyes fasten onto the rock with determination. “I want to try again.” You stare up at him. “Please.”

His entire body stiffens as he hesitates. You think he’s going to refuse, but… “Okay.” He agrees after a moment. “But remember. The rifle is easier to handle when you’re moving or when you’re standing. It’s one of the most complicated weapons I own. The scope measures the distance, gaging the amount of force that it requires to hit the target.” He taps the barrel. “The more distance, the more power.” Pulling a spare cartridge out from his boot, Din reloads the rifle for you.

“I see.” You need to kill that rock. “It’s so excessive,” you sigh.

He chuckles. “Here.” When you look up at him, Din’s fingers are already pulling at the cape secured around his throat. “Put this under you.”

The Mandalorian ushers your entire body upwards for a moment before laying down hiscape on the hard ground so you don’t injure your body even further. A hot rush of pure lust burns down your spine as he places the material under you gingerly, like you’re some form of precious cargo he can’t stand to damage. The cape, still warm from his body, smells like him—musky and deep.

You lean over the rifle again as you cushion your elbows and knees on the fabric, surrounding yourself with his scent. “Okay, I’m ready.” With a puff, you blow a lone strand of hair away from your face.

“Wait.” Din leans over you again, both of his giant hands coming to take the hair out of your eyes. His gloved fingers trail along the top of your head, smoothing little wisps of hair down to your neck. “There you go. Now you can see properly.” His hand clenches for a second, forming a ponytail at the nape of your neck.

_How are you supposed to concentrate now?_ “Thank you.”

“Steady yourself. Holding your breath helps. And make sure you brace yourself on the ground,” Din reminds you, his tone impossibly gentle. “Try it.”

Silence. You focus. You inhale, drawing the crisp air into your lungs—

_Pew!_ The rifle jumps in your hands as you fire your next shot. It’s much better than your initial try, but nevertheless you slide backwards slightly, swearing as the force of the shot pushes through your entire body.

You’ve missed. “Fuck, I just can’t—”

“ _Shhh._ It’s okay.” Din tries to calm you. “You’re too light,” he explains. “You would need a different kind of rifle. At such a distance, it’s unreasonable for you to absorb this much recoil.”

It’s childish, but your face crumples into disbelief. “So, then, how can I _how_ —I mean I’ve seen you snipe someone while _kneeling._ ”

“I’m stronger. And heavier.”

“Still.” You press your eye to the scope again, the reckless edge of your personality rearing its ugly head. “It can’t be impossible.” You make to pull the trigger again—

“Wait.” You freeze. Even with your determination simmering up a stupid amount, you still want to listen to Din. He grabs the rifle, loading it again. “Wait,” he repeats. He lowers the gun back into your hands.

Then he lowers _himself_ down over you, his knees caging you in on either side of your waist. His broad shoulders brace over yours, effectively pinning your entire upper body to the ridge. It’s no small miracle that he rests his weight perfectly on the first try. _Maker_ he smells good.

“Try it now,” he tells you, the baritone coming from directly next to your head. Din’s hand cups the bottom of the long barrel, bringing the scope back up to your eye. With his strength the act of it seems entirely effortless. “Make sure to keep your hips up and your elbows on the ground.” He reaches down to grab the hollows of your hips, tugging your ass upwards roughly and adjusting your position under him.

His crotch is just inches from your ass.

Meanwhile your hands are shaking, struggling to hold up the weight of the barrel.Here he is, trying his best to teach you a new skill while dirty thoughts cloud your mind. He’s so _warm,_ so broad and sturdy behind you _. You love when he manhandles you like this._

“Okay.” You look through the scope—and why is everything blurry? Squinting, you focus all your attention on that blasted rock. It’s still flawless, not a single mark left on it from your previous attempts.

You inhale, drawing your breath deep into your lungs and holding it.

“I’ve got you,” Din whispers, right next to your head. A large hand tucks under you, flattening a warm palm to your belly in an attempt to steady you further.

_Pew!_

This shot is the worst by far. You don’t jolt backwards a significant amount with Din pinning you down and bracing you with his added weight, but the shot still flies largely off to the left, not even close to the target. You’re about to swear in frustration when your ass jerks back into Din’s crotch, and… that is… _that_ is definitely _not_ beskar.

And just like that, all the disappointment dies in your throat. Suddenly you really don’t give a shit about the rock. Not at all.

“That was better,” Din encourages, completely calm despite your discovery. He’s gorgeously erect; you can feel how hard he is as he crowds against you, pushing the thick rod of his cock snugly up to your ass. Even through all the fabric that separates your bodies, you can feel him throb. "Much better.” And ever so casually, Din moves your hair back again. But now his fingertips brush downwards, lingering on the front of your neck. “Give it another try,” he says. He hands you a cartridge and you reload the rifle obediently. “Good girl. Now steady yourself.”

His gloved hand tucks under your stomach to prop you up again, but this time it slides _under_ your shirt, creating a beautiful friction. The hand slides upwards, snaking up to cup your bare breast.

“D-Din,” you whimper out.

In response he pinches your nipple _hard,_ letting the exquisite pain of it dim as he drags his hand away, his glove catching on smooth skin as he trails it all the way back down your torso, only stopping when it comes to a rest right above your waistband.

“Come on, pretty girl. You can do this,” he coaxes, his baritone dipping dangerously low. “Try again.” It’s a persuasion _and_ a taunt.

You try to draw in a deep breath, you really do, but it’s futile. Any air you breathe in you release instantaneously, your exhales stuttering loudly in the quiet that cloaks the cliff.

“I can’t—I can’t.” You begin to shake your head.

Gloved fingertips skim the front of your throat, reminding you of their presence.

“I can help you,” Din murmurs. His large fingers twitch on your skin, tightening almost imperceptibly around the sides of your neck for less than a second. “I can help you keep steady… if you wanted.”

_Oh._

You realize what he’s asking. It’s so fucking dirty, the thought of him helping you control you breath… it’s so fucking depraved. You’ve never let anyone try. But you want it all. Your eyes flicker to the side, your reflection staring back at you in his visor as he waits for your answer.

“… Yes, please.”

“Yes _what_?” You can tell he’s asking through a clenched jaw. His hips buck ever so slightly into you, pushing his cock back up against your ass. “Do you want my help keeping still?”

You bite back a moan as his gloved fingertips flex on your throat. “Yes please. Help me.”

The exhale Din lets out is long and slow, crackling through the modulator. “Alright then.”

You take that as your cue to push your head forwards, craning to see through the scope while his large palm is still fixed to the front of your neck. “Good girl,” he says. “Now keep steady, just like that. Make sure you have the target locked. Good. Good girl. _Good._ Focus. One, two, three— _”_

The hand on your neck _squeezes._

It’s not painful at all, but it’s not completely gentle either—Din chokes you with just enough pressure so that you can’t quite let out your whine, and you feel your pussy _gush._ You faintly register pulling the trigger, faintly hear the shot ring off in the distance. Mostly, though, your choked off little moan—pathetic and needy—fills your head. You jerk back further into his crotch, hips squirming. He’s hard and impossible hot, not budging an inch even as your entire body jumps against him.

The pressure on your throat relents. The blood rushes back to your head. You gasp for air, a desperate little inhalation that feels downright sinful.

Din doesn’t react, doesn’t flinch.

“Good girl,” he coos, stroking your hair back as your chest heaves. “That’s it, baby. You tried so hard. You did so well that time.” You shiver at the new pet name, whimpering. “Oh, you like that, don’t you? Keep your hands on the rifle. Let me help you.”

“I really tried.”

“I know you did.” He hooks a finger into your waistband, pulling your pants and your panties down, stretching the material over the curve of your hips.“Bite this for me,” he says, slowly pushing a gloved finger into your mouth.

You obey, taking the leather between your teeth, and he’s tugging his hand away, leaving the material behind. When his calloused fingers ghost over your soaking slit you whimper, your legs trembling as you struggle to keep your weight on your knees. Your entire abdomen dips closer to the ground. You can hear how wet you are, the obscene noises from your slick the loudest sounds around.

And then Din _moans_.

Starting to pant, you can’t help it when your mouth opens. His glove tumbles from your lips, falling, spinning, making it’s way down the cliff in a freefall. It lands with a tiny thud at the bottom.

You try to jerk out of Din’s grasp to catch the glove, but it’s worthless. You wouldn’t have been able to stop it. And even if you could—Din _doesn’t let you go._

Instead, his hand presses on your throat again, cutting off your breath for a few delicious moments.

“ _Leave it,_ ” he commands darkly. “It can wait.”

He releases his hold and your head _spins._

“B-But—” Your outstretched fingers fall back to the ground.

“I don’t think you can hit the target when you’re this distracted.” Din’s modulated voice hasn’t really changed since this all started. It’s driving you crazy how steady and level he seems to be, how slow and deliberate each of his movements is. With one hand still on your throat, he runs his other hand through your drenched folds, collecting all the wetness there before he dips a thick fingertip teasingly—just the very tip of it—into your aching cunt. “Look at this. Your pussy is so wet. I think you want to cum, don’t you?”

You moan in reply. Din is drawing backwards, kneeling up so he can look at you from behind. You turn your head back, craning to see what he’s doing over your shoulder.

“Why don’t you make yourself cum?” He’s undoing his belt and yanking his thick, aching, cock out of his pants. Your mouth goes dry when you see it, the tip red and pulsing, a bead of precum already starting to form. He grips the base of it, cupping his balls.

Suddenly, he grabs your hips and flips you easily, your back hitting the ground cushioned only by his cape.

He’s starting to lose control.

“Please Din.” Your pants are still on, the material bunched around your thighs. He tugs them and your panties off roughly, spreading your legs apart and sliding his cock through your swollen folds to rest the entire length of it on your tummy. His cock is _so_ thick. It looks so big against your body, and you wonder how it ever fits inside you. 

“If you listen very carefully and you’re a good girl, I’ll slide it inside. I bet that little clit is just pulsing for me.” He leans over you, forcing your legs backward. “Use your hands and hold your knees apart. That’s it. Oh, _fuck,_ you look pretty _,”_ he growls. He taps his cock against your clit, and you jump, yelping in surprise. It feels _good._

Your face must be bright red. You’re so breathless, your chest heaving in anticipation as you moan out his name.

He’s murmuring even more as he studies your body. “I used to wonder what your beautiful face looked like when you cum,” he tells you. One hand grabs your hip, urging you to rock against him, the thick, blunt, head of his cock pushing up against your clit. “That’s it. Good girl. Press your hips up into me, work them up. That’s it. Make my cock fuck your slit.” His visor is fixed to the damp mess between your legs.

“I want it inside—please—”

“I’ll put it inside when you cum for me,” Din grits out. “That’s it, keep rubbing your clit on me.“ The only sound besides his low growls are the wet noises from your pussy. “That’s it. You’re so fucking messy, look at you. Play with your pretty tits for me. Make yourself cum all over my cock.”

You pinch your nipples through your shirt, gasping. He’s leaning over you, watching you as you shamelessly rub your slit up and down his cock, your breaths starting to come in sharp little pants as you edge yourself closer and closer. Your hands move from your nipples, grasping his other hand, the one that props his body up.

Slowly and intentionally, you wrench it from the earth, moving it back to your neck.

“Oh, _fuck,”_ he groans out, his back stiffening. “Y-you want… you want my hand on your throat?”

“Y-yes,” you whine. “Please, please please _please—_ ”

He squeezes your neck _hard_ for a second, and your hands fly up to grip his wrist. Stars spin in your vision and you can barely whimper.

“That’s alright, sweet girl,” he reassures you, his tone dripping with condescension. “That’s alright. Put your hands on me. Tap me if I go too far.”

Your hips work harder, rubbing your clit against his cock even faster. You love the feel of his big, strong, hand on your throat, the pressure of it lighter than before but more constant now, bearing down on you as he squeezes. The force of his grip increases with every passing second in slight increments, cutting you off more and more from the world _._ You can barely hear yourself, the landscape around you muffled.

“That’s it.” Din coaxes you through it. His voice is shaking now, but he’s still so _fucking put together_ in comparison to you _._ “Look at me with those desperate eyes. Show me that pretty face, show me how much you want to cum.” His helmet looms above you. You’re still rubbing your swollen clit into him, and your legs begin to tremble as your orgasm nears. Your cunt is so wet, so loud. “That’s it. Come on, cum on me. I want it. Get my cock messy. Soak my cock.” His hand squeezes your throat harder and everything starts to blur.“Be a good girl and cum for me. Cum in _five. Four—_ ”Oh, Maker, is he _counting you down?_ “Come on, baby. _Three._ That’s a good girl. _”_ You try to gasp for air, but you can’t. All you can feel is the throbbing of your clit. “ _Two._ Thats a good, good, girl. _“_ Oh and you’re _there_ , you’re right fucking there— “ _One_.”

Under Din’s spell, you cum hard and slow. He swears and releases the sides of your neck, and you’re whimpering, gasping loudly, your eyes tearing up as your stare straight up into his visor and the world slams into focus. Your whole body is shaking, convulsing with the strength of your orgasm.

“D-Din,” you whisper hoarsely. You can’t speak. Not really.

It’s so fucking devastating, so disorienting as the landscape spins back into clarity, the pleasure racking through your body _again,_ this time more sharply. It’s insanity.

“Oh, _sweet little girl,_ ” Din coos. You can feel his discipline splinter as he growls, grabbing your jaw roughly. “You’re cumming. You’re cumming so hard like a good little slut.” Your eyes start to roll back into your head, but Din taps the side of your face firmly, once, then twice. “You’re still cumming, aren’t you? Look at me. Stay with me. Stay here.” The small slaps ground you, forcing your eyes back to the T-visor, and _Maker,_ why is this the hottest thing in the world? You want to be in his control forever, to stare into his beskar helmet, to have every ounce of his domineering attention lasered on your body like this.

As your ride out the last long wave of your orgasm, he drops your jaw, letting your head fall limply back onto his cape.

“Look at what a mess you’ve made.” He’s not wrong. Your cheeks flush when you see how wet you are, and how wet you’ve made his thick cock. There’s a dark spot where your slick has stained the cape. His cock is pulsing with want. “Your cunt is fucking _messy,”_ he spits out.

You reach for him, wanting tenderness, wanting reassurance. But instead of giving that to you, he grabs your hips and flips you over againso you’re propped up on your knees, your ass perked into the air. 

“Alright,” he says casually, like he hasn’t just made you cum the hardest you ever have in your life. “Pick it up.”

_The… rifle?_ “Din.”

“Pick up the rifle. And feel the ground.” He leans over you, pressing you downwards, and despite the composure in his voice you feel the head of his cock—just the tip of it—breaching the entrance of your blushed cunt.

“Remember, knees up and keep steady. Lean forwards,” he continues. You don’t obey so he pushes you roughly, anchoring your weight onto your elbows. Then he places a pile of cartridges next to your elbow.

“Din!” You cut him off with an incredulous whine. Your entire body is still trembling with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“Come on.” His voice softens. “Come on. Be a good girl and focus.” His hand pets your hair as your fumble with the rifle. “Look through the scope.”

You can’t really see _anything._ You try your hardest because he tells you to—because you can’t help but want to please him when he’s mumbling praises softly into your ear like this. “Din, I can’t see, _”_ you protest.

“ _Try,_ ” he hisses, his voice pitching higher, straining. “Come on,” he pleads. “Oh, _fuck._ ” Your pussy clenches around the head of his cock, prompting Din to groan. The desperation of it, the pure _want_ that burns through his voice is so unusual. Power floods through your veins. He’s as needy as you are now. “Try for me. _Please_.”

Not caring that the shot will surely miss, you pull the trigger. Your body jerks backwards, pushing you backwards onto his cock by a small inch. Your surprised gasp mingles with his.

_Oh. That’s why._

Din’s breaths are coming hard and strained through the modulator. He’s begging you to try again, telling you you’re so fucking good, that you’re always so fucking good—

“Squeeze it, sweet girl, just fucking squeeze it, sweet girl. _Fuck_ you’re so tight. Make me lose control with that tight little pussy, make me press into you— _”_

Your fingers are shaking as you reload the rifle, and fuck it, you’re not even going to try to hit that blasted rock. His cock twitches as you line your eye up again, your finger already on the trigger and—

The next shot from the rifle pushes you backwards even more.

“ _Fuck.”_ Din sounds like all the air is punched out of his lungs when you’re forced back, sheathing another few inches of his cock in your wet heat. “One more.”

Your hands work through the motions as fast you can. You’re so eager for him, and you can feel his shoulders start to tremble as you line up your last shot. His cock is almost completely hilted within you at this point.

You take more time with the preparation for this shot, pretending to focus if only to tease him. You decide that it’s fair after all he’s put you through. He’s a mess behind you, his fingers shaking in your hair. “ _Please,_ ” he begs. “Be good. Be good for me. Let me open up your tight little hole.”

You squeeze the trigger.

The recoil on this one is intense, launching you backwards until he’s fully seated inside of you, as deep as possible. You can feel his balls right against the entrance of your pussy, the heavy press of them making you moan.

Gasping, Din stays still for a moment. Then he shifts upwards, balancing on his feet and pulling your hair so your spine is arched out in front of him. He wastes no time straddling your thighs. “Perk that ass up for me,” he grits out darkly. _He’s officially lost control._

Your hands scrambling for purchase, you suddenly drop the rifle. It tumbles off the cliff. Neither of you really notice. All you know is that Din has started to thrust into you, pounding _down_ into you with long and hard strokes. His breaths come ragged, your vision swimming each time the hard head of his cock rubs up into that gorgeous spot deep inside of you with each of his brutal, measured thrusts. You can hear his moans, uncontrolled and lovely, the slap of his balls as they roughly hit your clit. Every time he jerks into you he pitches you forward, jarring your entire body as he shoves his dick further inside you; only his hands, clenched in your hair and on your waist, keep you steady.

"Din, oh _fuck_ , _Din_ —” You’re incoherent at the roughness of the position, the vulnerability of it, the loud slaps of flesh making you flush down to your breasts.

_Oh,_ he’s so thick, and you’re cumming, you’re cumming again, wailing into the air without a care that you’re still in the middle of a rocky plain.

“Good, good girl. Good girl, so fucking wet, so fucking tight. Take me so fucking good all the time.” His hips start to stutter, thrusting even harder, _wrecking_ you. “Oh, f-fuck, I’m going to cum.”

“Inside,” you plead. You’re almost crying. “Please.”

“I’ll come inside you,” he reassures, not pausing for a second. “I’ll train you like a good little slut, teach you how to take my load again and again— _”_ The thought of that makes you _clench,_ and his hand tightens in your hair. “Oh, yes, baby, milk my cock, fucking s-squeeze every last d-drop of cum out of it like a good fucking girl.” You hear these words, and they achieve their desired effect. You clench around him again.

He starts to cum, pulsing into you as he stiffens, a broken gasp sounding out through the modulator as the beskar helmet sinks between your shoulder and your neck. “Oh, _fuckkk_.”

There’s so _much_. He fills you, and it might be your imagination, but you feel the pressure of his seed inside you as he cums, pumping into you slowly, stroke after stroke.

His body goes limp and for a second you think he’s passed out. His weight falls onto you.

“Din!”

“Shit.” He pulls out of your pussy, the sound absolutely obscene as he does. He rolls over onto his back and pulls you on top of him, smoothing a hand over your shoulder blade. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I just… that was just…” His voice trails off. “Fuck.”

Your heart pounds. “I dropped it.”

He doesn’t reply. He pulls his pants up, tucking his cock back into his pants. He’s soaked with your cum and his, but his reaction reminds you that you’re both still in the middle of an open cliff face. You’re almost naked.

“I hope…” You bite your lip, blushing. “I hope no one saw us.”

“No one around,” he answers. He sounds like he’s about to fall asleep. “Not even blurrgs.”

“Din.” You scooch closer. “We should go get the rifle and your glove.”

“Later.” He’s turning to look at you, the visor fixed onto your face. “Stay here with me.” He takes his cape and dabs between your legs. “Just stay here.” He pulls you closer. “Come here, you tiny little thing.”

The sky is a swirl of pastel, reflecting in the beskar that still covers so much of Din’s large form. His hand trails downwards, towards his belt, and then he’s pulling something out, something that’s utterly familiar, striking a chord deep inside your heart.

“Here.” He presses your choker into your hand.

“You kept it. Can you— _”_ You blink back tears. “Can you put it back on me?”

His fingers are thick and clumsy as he works the fastening of the necklace. He places it over your neck, doing exactly as you asked.

After he finishes there’s a deep silence. You nuzzle his shoulder, finding the vulnerable spot right between pauldron and the chestplate.

“I missed you,” he whispers first. You heart swells.

“I missed you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> etchedbox.tumblr.com


	10. Tread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made decision to cut this chapter in two! It was too long for me. Will post the next one on next Sunday. OMG. Can't wait to hear what people think!
> 
> Big note on timeline: DUST is only canon up until the beginning of Season 2, Chapter 14: THE TRAGEDY. And then you can forget about everything after that.

“Din."

"Yes?"

"How is it?” 

“Haven’t started yet. Smells good.” 

There are no set meal times on the Razor Crest. Whenever hunger strikes you and Din have taken to sitting back to back on a crate, his spine pressed against yours. The position is nothing premeditated. It’s a simple alignment of bodies, a puzzle arrangement. With your faces pointed in opposite directions and the lights on, you can share a meal.

He can’t see you smile. “It tasteseven better,” you boast, shoving a morsel between your lips. “Try it.”

You hear the scrape of plates against the surface of the crate. Besides that, only the hum of hyperspace breaks the silence. Nevarro is one day away.

You don’t think before you ask. “Do you miss him?” 

For a while your only answer is the sound of teeth, of lips smacking together as Din eats.

“Forget I asked,” you add. “Didn’t mean to pry.” 

“Of course I miss the Kid,” Din whispers. As if he's intent on smoothing over this confession, he rushes his next statement. “This is delicious.” 

You’re completely satisfied with this tiny fragment of honesty about the Kid, so you don’t push further. “Thank you. Blurggs are tough, but once you get under that hide…” You click your tongue. “There is some _good_ meat.” 

Din hums in agreement. The chewing resumes. 

_What does Din look like?_ Pure curiosity slams into you in the midst of banal tasks. One time, as you splashed your face in the fresher and stared at your own reflection in the tiny mirror, you tried to sculpt Din’s face in your mind. Like the good pilot you are, you had made a checklist and ran through it, organizing and reshuffling the details as if the order somehow mattered:

1\. Din has curly, brown, hair. Within the carelessness of early mornings, long locks sneak out from under the helmet, the tips kissing the golden skin of his neck. 

2\. Din shaves. You’ve seen the little kit he keeps by the sink and his facial hair is never unruly against your cheeks. _But why does he keep a moustache if no one sees it?_ In your speculation you’ve decided that the hair on his face must be same color as the hair on his hands—just a tiny shade darker. It _must_ be the same color as the hair on his thighs... or the hair between his legs.

3\. Din has a strong jawline. You've felt the blade of it beneath your fingertips and he likes resting his angular face against your stomach after sex. He loves it when you reach down to stroke his hair.

4\. Din’s lips, moving against yours, are thin, pouted, and firm.

5\. Din’s nose is pronounced and curved. As you trace your fingers upwards you feel the crease between his thick eyebrows, permanently etched into his skin. It deepens when he laughs or when he frowns. Or when he orgasms. 

6\. Din’s skin is textured with lines (wrinkles, you think, especially around his eyes when he smiles) and the smattering of his beard. 

By the time you get to the end of your list, you know the order of these details doesn’t matter in the least. You’ve actually _seen_ him— the entire lower half of his face reflected in his visor—and yet you still don’t know what he looks like.

At school on Alderaan, you were always the best at reading the star charts. Top of the class. Trailing through the holographic maps, the richness of them excited you—the sheer possibility of endless space travel. _That planet: Coruscant. This planet: Alderaan. That one over there: Hoth._ If you shut your eyes, the vividness of the galaxy springs out before you, expansive paths carved in your mind that snake this way and that—memories bound by stars and darkness. _Three parsecs that way: Jedha. Follow this hyperspace lane: Corellia._

By now you are as familiar with these charts as you are the lines on your own palms.

So it only serves to drive you mad that even though you’ve trailed your fingers over Din's individual features thousands of times, you still can’t map his face. _Here: his nose._ _There: his ear._ The visualization collapses; you begin again. _Here: his mouth._ No, that won't do. _Here, his..._ Whatever you do, his face remains a blur.

It’s his eyes, you realize. You don’t have a good place to start without his eyes. His eyes would be the burning star at the center of a galaxy, a place to begin and draw outwards from. Without them, mapping his face—the life of it—is a lost cause.

“Three and a half times,” Din blurts out. His words splinter the silence, as piercing as blaster-fire. 

You nod even though he can’t see you. “Three and a half times.”

On Arvala-7, drunk on pleasure after the rifle lesson, you let it slip that you’ve only had sex with one man before Din, and that your total number of sexual experiences was limited to three and a half times. 

“Three and a half times,” Din repeats, bewildered. “What does that mean?”

You chuckle, the memories flooding back. “Let’s start with the first three times. Those were the first _complete_ times before I left Alderaan. Some boy in the same tutoring pool as me. Must have added up to a combined total of six minutes, tops.” Brushing your palms together, you flick the breadcrumbs off your fingers. “And the half time was when I was already part of the rebellion. But the actual act of it never happened. We just did stuff. Half stuff.” 

“Half stuff?”

You regret phrasing it that way. “We never had sex,” you clarify. “I wanted to, but he put an end to it. He was an intelligence officer specializing in undercover recon… and he was off to a really important mission. He never believed he would come back. He said things couldn’t go further because I had just joined the rebellion and I didn’t understand the scars it could leave. And so we remained friends.” You try to keep this as vague as possible.

“You never spoke about it again?” Din’s unmodulated baritone is a gift. You catch the softest of sounds he makes, the way he breathes and sighs as he ponders the situation.

“Well… he was right,” you exhale. “He never came back.” 

Din’s spine stiffens against your own. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be,” you answer. “He wouldn’t have had it any other way. It was important. The most important.” The pure sacrifice of it still stuns you, the act filled with a courage that you couldn’t yet find within yourself. “I just hope he found peace.” 

Din chews. Before he can respond—

“But I’ve made out with people. Kissed a whole lot of people,” you finish, trying to change the subject. By instinct you don’t want to emanate your inexperience; that was something the other starfighter pilots teased you for. “It was common for us to have a bit of fun within the squadron. But the men I was actually interested in were so much higher up and older that they viewed me as a kid.” _Did you just admit you liked older men?_ “But yeah. Anyways. I’ve made out with a ton of people. Like, even with Jafan—”

“Jafan?” Din interrupts you. “The boy on Coruscant?”

“… Yeah.” 

“When?” 

You shift awkwardly. “After the ballet, when he walked me back to my room.” 

There is a long pause. 

“I see.” You can picture how Din’s helmet would tilt down as he utters those words, but you can’t imagine his expression. You want nothing more than to look him in the eyes, because only then could you provide him with assurance. The kiss with Jafan didn’t matter. Not in the slightest.

“I was confused over you.” It’s not hard to admit this. “Honestly, I didn’t know what to do.” Your hands fall beside your body, your voice shaking. “I haven’t really kissed that many people either. I don’t know why I said that. Maybe six or seven, but I don’t think that’s highly unusual for someone my age…”

You stop talking then, because Din grabs your hand. A thumb calloused from years of handling weapons runs over your knuckles. “It wouldn’t matter if you did,” he says.

His voice is like gravity; you drift towards it, towards the earthy goodness of him that feels solid. Whenever you’re about to wander into these thoughts that still swim around in your head, Din pulls you back. Like right now, for instance: you were just about to delve into your deepest insecurities, the small tremors in your brain that remind you of how off-course your life has become. A Pilot without a destination. A Girl who has seen most of what she possessed in this life destroyed at the hands of the Empire. Din _grounds_ you. You’re here right now—nowhere else. 

“It wouldn’t matter if you kissed Jafan… or if you kissed other boys on Coruscant.” Din’s thumb continues to stroke your knuckles in small, soothing, motions. “I… I let you go. That was my fault.”

It’s the first time that either of you have addressed it so directly. 

“Din.” You don’t say anything further because you need to kiss him, but you can’t turn around, not when the lights are on and his helmet is off. 

He understands what you need. He always does. Before you can ask, he’s pressing a button on his vambrace and flooding the hull with a familiar inky blackness. 

“Come here,” he husks out.

Your body twists, moving towards him clumsily. Large hands grab your shoulders, aiding you, yanking you towards him. 

It’s always so desperate when you kiss Din. The openness of the moment is a wound, and his soft lips move against yours, healing it. When urgency overcomes the both of you, Din’s teeth bump into yours and he draws back, breathless.

“I’m… I’m so sorry.” At first, you don’t know what he’s apologizing for. He’s so close that his breath feels wet on your lips when he speaks. “You might have noticed… but I find it hard to say what I mean. I know what I want to say, but sometimes I just… I don’t know, I just can’t. It’s my fault. I should have never let you leave.”

He smells like he always does, like beskar and cloth and leather mixed together with the crispness of the bar soap he uses everyday; it melds with his skin and sweat, the scent twining with your heart _._ In your fantasies, you remember dreaming of what a man would smell like. This is better. ““No. It isn’t your fault. You don’t need to say much,” you tell him.

“I should when it matters.” You can hear the stickiness in Din’s throat as he swallows, these gentle words of his brimming in his mouth. “I… When I… When I first saw you, in Nevarro. In the alleyway. I thought you were beautiful. Not just your face. But the way you looked at me.” 

“I think you’re beautiful too, Din.”

“But you don’t know what I look like—”

“It’s the way you move,” you cut him off with determination, grasping his hands tightly in yours. You try to never interrupt him, but this feels essential. “You move like a warrior. Like the master of your own destiny. And that… it makes me want to watch you. In motion, in stillness… I had that thought the very first day too. From the very first moment I saw you. That I wanted to _watch_ you.” You pause, suddenly uncertain of your own words. “Is that disconcerting?” 

“A little.” 

His words sting.

“But,” he says quickly, before the insecurity can seep below your skin. “I understand it, I think.”

His breaths slow, fanning across your flushed cheeks.

“Because I feel the same way,” he finishes.

_Electric._ That’s what it feels like to kiss Din. Electric, like the shivers that rack through your body are charged with the same current that powers the ship.

Exploring the galaxy as a pilot, you’ve stumbled upon geomagnetic disturbances—something akin to thunderstorms in space. Natural phenomenons so rare that they’re myths. Colors painting the darkness, encapsulating you in a bright light that translated fast across your blown pupils. Ten seconds and it was gone forever. Every single time you stared around you—soaking it in—it felt like you were watching something brief but sacred, like you were ever so lucky to witness an incident so otherworldly and perfect in your lifetime. 

When you kiss Din, all of this—all that you’ve experienced and seen—is _inside_ you. A perfect storm within your chest. You could burst. 

Panting, he finally pulls away, moving his mouth across your closed eyelids, the plump of his lips brushing your lashes. Then Din hooks his finger into the collar of your shirt and pulls, stretching the fabric down the plane of your shoulder. He presses his lips to your bare skin, right above the sharp edge of your exposed collarbone. 

“If I had known,” he says, the words muffled. “I… I assumed you were experienced. If I had known I would have been gentle.” 

You shake your head. “No. No, Din.” You stroke his hair, your fingertips dragging across his scalp with every slow motion. “You could never hurt me.” The entire length of his neck relaxes, his heavy head slumping further against you.

“But—”

“It didn’t matter. I didn’t want you to be gentle,” you confess. “I just wanted you. I just want you.” 

Din exhales very slowly. The cavity of his chest shudders like he’s straining to expel every single ounce of air from his lungs. You expect him to say something after, but he doesn’t. He just holds you closer, his palm trembling against your jaw. 

The both of you sit like that for a long while, shrouded in darkness. You think that there will never be anything as perfect, or as simple, or asgood.

* * *

The little thing almost trips over himself in the effort to run to Din. 

“Careful, baby!” Greef Karga’s obnoxious bellow greets you. 

The Crest’s ramp has barely touched the soil of Nevarro when the Mandalorian scoops the Child up into his arms. The Kid is practically crying by the time he reaches his father, little whimpers spilling from his open mouth. “You okay?” The modulated baritone softens as Din looks at the Kid up close. The Child stares up as his dad, wide eyes creasing with relief as Din cradles him gently. “What, Kid? You missed me?” 

It’s hard not to melt when the Child presses a tiny clawed hand to the Mandalorian’s visor. _Maker, what is this feeling?_ It’s strange. You want to hug the both of them, but you also… you also really want to jump Din’s bones. It’s _confusing._

“Look who’s here.” Din approaches you with his son in his arms, and to your surprise the Kid babbles, giddy with happiness. 

“Oh, sweet thing.” Your fingertips brush the Kid’s forehead.

“We missed you too Kid,” Din says. _We._ His phrasing isn’t lost on you. 

“He was real trouble the last few days,” Cara groans. “I mean, real trouble. He didn’t want anything to do with us. Couldn’t feed him anything. Not even those blue biscuits he’s taken a liking to. But you wouldn’t know it if you look at him now.” 

“He’s happy,” Karga booms out in agreement.

Everyone stares at the Child, who is already falling into his next nap on Din’s arm. A large green ear is folded, tucked neatly against the beskar chestplate. One of the baby’s hands grips Din’s thumb, his entire claw barely encircling the lone digit.

“Karga. Cara.” Din nods at his friends. “How can I thank you?” 

“What do you mean?” Karga looks genuinely confused. “I love the baby!”

“No worries Mando,” Cara says, turning to you. “Hi, by the way.” 

“Yes,” Karga muses. “Hello again.” 

“Hello.” You blush. The thought that Mando had even discussed youwith another person is enough to make you shy.

Cara smirks. “Will the both of you stay on Nevarro?” 

Din shakes his head. “I have been quested with returning this Child to the Jedi,” he says, glancing down at his son, who has perked up. “I was instructed by one of his kind to bring him to the planet Tython. On that planet there’s a seeing stone for him to communicate with his kind.” 

“So he’s leaving now?” Cara sounds surprised. “Forever?” 

“It can’t be!” Karga throws his hands up in disbelief.

“The Jedi?” You heart stills. “Why would Grogu need to go with a Jedi?” Mistakenly, you assumed that Din would never part with the Child. You had been preparing to stay on Nevarro for months.

Cara, Karga, and you exchange a look. Apparently the whole group had many unanswered questions. 

“I’ll explain further on the ship,” Din says to you. “But yes. If the Jedi want Grogu to go with them, he should. It’s only right.” 

“I understand,” Cara whispers, her expression falling blank. “Goodbye Kid.” 

Meanwhile, Karga is completely deflated, his shoulders sagging visibly as he contemplates the Child’s fate. “Goodbye baby.” 

They step forwards, and you avert your eyes as the two exchange their farewells with the Child. It feels intrusive to keep looking, like a private moment you shouldn’t be privy to as the outsider of this party.

“Until next time.” When you look up, Cara is staring between Din and you. “Be careful out there.” 

“Yes,” Karga agrees. “Take care of one another.” 

Din nods silently and turns on his heel. _Why is he so cool in these situations?_ It’s like he makes the smoothest exits, leaving you floundering in his absence.

“Goodbye,” you manage to say. “You both stay safe.” Turning to follow Din up the ramp, you notice that he’s studying a necklace around the Child’s neck. _A Mudhorn._ Din’s clan.

As the ramp shuts, Din begins to explain. “The Child has powers. I should have told you sooner.” 

“What kinds of powers?” 

Din shifts his weight, cocking his hip out as he searches for the right way to phrase his answer. “Look,” he finally decides. “Take this.” Grabbing your hand, he places the metal ball from the cockpit right in the center of your palm. You reach to give it back to the Kid, but Din shakes his head. “Not yet. Walk over there to the other side.” 

Following his instructions, you pace across the hold of the Crest. “So… what is this supposed to achieve?”

Instead of answering, Din holds the Kid out. “Kid,” Din says. “Look.” The Child stares at his father, confused as to what the commotion is about. “Come on Grogu. Look at what the pretty girl has.” 

“Din,” you sigh, feeling ridiculous.

“Say his name.” 

You hesitate. “Grogu.”

The Kid’s head bolts up towards you, and every single one of his small features instantly brightens at the sight of the metal ball.

“Give him some encouragement,” Din tells you. “Ask him to take it from you.” 

You’re still confused, but nevertheless you hold up the ball. “Go on, Grogu. Take it.” 

The Child squints and holds up a tiny arm, his claw outstretched. 

“Take it from the pretty girl, Grogu,” Din soothes.

“Take it,” you urge. “You can do it. Grogu.” 

“You can do it,” Din says. 

All of the sudden, you feel a strong _tug_ on the ball, the pull of an invisible force that plucks it right from your fingers. The ball floats through the air with a velocity that should be impossible, flinging itself right into the Child’s magnetic grasp. 

_What… the…_

“Dank farrik!” Mando is chuckling, bouncing the Kid in his arms. “You did it Kid!”

Surprised at this unexpected outburst from his father, the Kid drops the ball equally as suddenly. It falls to the floor of the ship with a loud clang.

“ _The Force,_ ” you whisper. “The Child is strong with the Force.” 

It’s Din’s turn to be surprised. “You know about… the… Force?”

“Yes.” You watch as the Kid’s face starts to scrunch up, twisting into displeasure. You stoop and pick up the ball, placing it back into the Child’s hands before he starts to cry. “The Force,” you repeat, staring down at the baby in wonder. 

“Let’s set our course.” Mando’s helmet tilts upwards towards the cockpit. “Tell me everything.” 

* * *

Din curses the day he turned the Child in as a bounty. The nightmares stir him from sleep, the images of his sin piercing through his consciousness in excruciating detail. On most nights Din witnesses the Child struggle against his binds, drowsy from the amount of blood that’s being drawn from him. Pershing—that dreaded doctor, the experimenter—cowers from the Mandalorian’s sight, shaking hands raised over his head. 

Right now in the cockpit, guilt from the entire escapade with the Client devours Din whole, consuming him further as the Girl regales him with stories from the rebellion. _The Force. Good… Evil. The dark side and the light._ It’s all true—all of it—and it scares the Mandalorian. 

The tiny creature in the Girl’s lap is more powerful than all of the beskar armor in the world. Beskar: Din’s _religion._ Forged under extreme temperatures, molded in fire to fit a warrior’s body. All unmatched to an invisible force wielded by enemy sorcerers. What was it Bo-Katan called Din again? A Child of the Watch. A boy brainwashed by a cult of religious zealots hellbent on an ancient way of life. _This is the way._ Din hasn’t uttered those words since. 

“This is a lot to take in,” the Girl murmurs. “Are you there?” 

_Are you there?_ Din isn’t so sure himself. He feels numb but also like his skin is expanding, making the armor unbelievably tight against his ribcage, constricting his lungs.

“Yeah,” he finally says. He’s flying the Crest, his hands moving robotically over the controls. 

“Din…” The Girl is behind him, cradling the Child. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”

“No,” he answers firmly. “No. I’m just thinking.” He punches in the coordinates to Tython. 

Infinitely patient, the Girl waits. She always gives him space to think, and Din appreciates that about her. Part of him fathomed that the Child was too powerful for Din to train, but the true magnitude of the Kid’s power astounds him. To think that the Child had used those same powers tosave Din from the Mudhorn, and for Din to then go and _turn the Child in as a bounty anyways—_

“Din.” The Girl’s tone is terse. “Din.” 

“What?” He can’t help but be slightly irritated.

“Din—” The Girl grabs his shoulder. 

He sees it. A blip on the Razor Crest’s radar, drawing closer at impressive speed. 

_Beep. Beep-Beep. Beep-Beep-Beep._

“A ship is approaching,” he states.

“ _I know a ship is approaching_ ,” the Girl grits out, equally as annoyed now. “And they’re advancing on us at a speed far too fast for friendly conversation. From the size I would say it’s a TIE fighter. That’s a guess. But it’s a guess that I think we should make.”

Right on cue the radio on the comm unit starts squawking, a corner of the large screen flashing red.

“Din. We need to go. _Now._ ” 

The bass of the thrusters drowns out her plea as Din finally adjusts the throttle, launching the Crest up and away. The maneuver is sudden—clumsy and inelegant. And as the cockpit jolts, the perilousness of the situation hits him. _Imps._ They must have planted a spy on Nevarro to wait for the Razor Crest’s arrival. Din’s heart sinks as he realizes that he had been rolling the dice this entire time; in truth, they were only lucky to have avoided trouble for so long. What if the Imps had found the Child on Nevarro? When Din wasn’t there? While Din was off elsewhere, galavanting somewhere in the Core, on Coruscant—

“Maker, fucking fly, Din. _Faster_. We’re lucky it’s just one for now.” The Girl’s vice-like grip on his shoulder tightens. “It’s going to catch up to us at this rate.” There’s an element of acceptance in her last statement, an odd calmness that floods her tone. “Keep flying,” she instructs. “They don't want to talk. Trust me.”

Din hesitates. _The Kid._ The Client. The Empire. _A Child of the Watch._ All the memories rush into him, overwhelming him, and all that exists now is the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears. And unmistakably— noticeably—the Razor Crest’s acceleration slows because of Din’s distraction. 

“You need to focus.” The Girl’s voice sounds distant, like a mere whisper. Din blinks, his vision blurring as the adrenaline ebbs in and out of his veins. “Focus. They’re here, they’ve caught up—”

Her voice this time is cut off by a loud bang—the sound of something breaking. The first hit from the TIE’s laser cannons takes out the Razor Crest’s left thruster with ridiculous accuracy, sending the ship plummeting towards the surface of Nevarro. Sparks fly in the cockpit, Din’s hands floating away from the controls as an intense wave of pressure roils through the Crest. Before he can register it, Din’s being unstrapped from the pilot’s seat and pushed roughly to the side. 

“ _Move_ ,” the Girl hisses, right into the side of his helmet. Din stumbles, catching his balance, only finding half a second to slide into another chair before the Child is shoved into his arms. “And strap in. _Tight_.” 

Scrambling, the Mandalorian barely manages to secure the belt before the entire ship starts spinning, free-falling into a barrel-roll. The pressure builds with every heavy rotation, darkness beginning to crowd the edges of Din’s vision. His grip on the Child starts to loosen, his gloved fingers lightening—

“ _Fuck,_ ” the Girl punches out. "I swear this would be so much easier with a droid.”

_Kid,_ Din thinks. _Kid, I’m sorry._

But then the ship dips upwards suddenly, surging away from Nevarro and back towards the black canvas of space. 

“Easy,” Din yells. “Easy on her, she’s not an X-wing! She’s old—” Din can feel the tight pull on the surface of his skin and the sheer power of multiple forces tugging at the ship, making the metal shudder and creak under the strain.

“I know she’s fucking old,” the Girl bites back, her hands fixed on the controls. “Trust me. I told you to trust me.” _I do,_ Din realizes.The Girl was a rebel pilot, and even though it seems crazy, he can tell that she’s _smiling._ “I’m going to keep us safe,” the Girl yells back to him. “I’m going to get this fucking eyeball-Vac-head-scum-of-the-galaxy. He’s not going to touch a _hair_ on the Kid’s head. Not even the fuzz.”

Din’s heartbeat is thunderous in his chest. There’s not a drop of fear in the Girl’s voice, no anxiety—just elation, pure excitement. She flies the ship upwards, balancing out the damaged thruster masterfully as she notes the TIE approaching on the right.

Her head turns for just a moment, offering Mando a brief glimpse of her face. Her sharp jaw is set in concentration, her eyes bright and _alive,_ the blood in her cheeks giving her a brilliant flush. The Kid, too, is having just as much fun, his large eyes lit with excitement as he babbles. 

Red needles shoot past the Crest on either side, stabbing out into the blackness of space. A second round of laserfire misses narrowly, far closer than Din would like. 

“Hold on to him,” the Girl warns Din. “But this will be fun.” 

“What will be fu—” His sentence is cut off suddenly as the Girl yanks on the joystick, banking the ship hard to the right and snapping the Crest into a roll so sharp that Din immediately shouts out: “Whoa, _easy, easy—_ ”

Apparently the Crest can handle it. The TIE fighter zooms right past them, its compact, orb, shape shooting right over the top of the Crest and almost skimming it (a collision that would have surely happened, Din realizes, if _he_ had been the one piloting)—and the Girl’s hands move impossibly quick over the controls, launching them after the enemy spacecraft.

It’s a chase now—not an escape. Impressively, she’s barely glancing at the instruments on the dashboard. The HUD lights up, blinking green to red as it centers the TIE within it’s crosshairs, the beeps growing more constant as the system finally acquires a target lock. 

_“Got you,”_ the Girl whispers. 

She flies even closer to the TIE, tailing it, and though Din would have blasted the cannons by now, he knows that she wants a dead shot—a clean kill that completely disintegrates the enemy in a single burst. Din's heart almost stops as the Crest draws impossibly close to the enemy spacecraft, up to the verge of impact. And at the precise moment—the exact moment that takes years of experience to truly _know_ —the Girl triggers the cannon. 

The enemy starfighter erupts in a novalike flurry of sparks.

The Girl doesn’t cut the Crest's velocity, doesn’t hesitate to keep going—

—punching the body of the ship right through the explosion, slicing right past the TIE’s vaporized wreckage. The windows in the cockpit pop with white light, sending Grogu into a loud series of elated giggles. Upon hearing this the Girl turns back to look, a wide grin fixed on her face. Her eyes dart to the Mandalorian, and as the sparks outside the windows fade away, melting slowly into darkness, Din thinks the Girl has never looked more beautiful. 

“I appreciate the appreciation, Kid,” she says. “Someone likes flying very much I think.” 

Still… it’s hard to ignore the churning of Din’s stomach. “You’re an excellent pilot,” he manages to croak out, his voice hoarse from all the yelling.

There’s a flicker on the Girl's face, a moment where her confidence—the borderline _arrogance_ she possesses about her piloting abilities—all but disappears from her expression. There's a flash of vulnerability, her gaze softening as she stares at Din, her eyes finding his. And just like that, he knows. He knows that she would do anything in the galaxy for him. _Why?_ It’s beyond his comprehension. The sheer honesty of it splits his chest open. He finds it hard to breathe. 

“Thank you." The Girl clears her throat. The pleasing blush that comes over her complexion is almost indistinguishable from her flushed excitement. Almost. She turns away, back to the dashboard. “Now. Where were we going?" 

* * *

Tython is a bust.

Din knows it the moment he sets foot within the circle of rocks. The Kid is perched precariously on the seeing stone, staring up at his father with confused eyes. 

“Come on, Kid,” Din sighs. “Ahsoka told me all I had to do was get you here and you’d do the rest.”

Grogu coos, staring up at the Mandalorian. The buzz from the starfighter chase near Nevarro hasn’t quite left the Kid; his tiny body shook with energy for days, only relenting when sleep took over. The Girl had indulged the Kid by ‘flying’ him around the Crest while making starfighter noises. _Zoom, zooooom-zooooom-pew-zoom._ Mixed with the Kid’s giggles, it’s all Din can hear as the Child reaches for him, compelling his father to pick him up. 

Din refuses. He waits. It’s been hours. “Come on, Kid,” he says again. 

_Zoom. Zoom—zoom—the Girl’s beaming face, the Child’s mouth wide with laughter—_

“Maybe we’ll come back another day.” Din relents, bending down to pick up the Child. “Maybe today isn’t the day for… Jedi stuff.” He hauls the Kid into his arms and ignites his jetpack.

The Girl is on all fours crouched under the Crest, tinkering away at the Crest, trying her hardest to work on the scorched thruster.

“It’s not working,” Din tells her. “He didn’t want to try today. Maybe tomorrow it’ll be better.” 

Crawling out and wiping her hands on her jumpsuit, the Girl nods. “There’s a small village on the other side of this hill.” She motions her head towards a large set of boulders. “It’s a small climb away from here. Good folk. I went exploring earlier and they helped me out with some tools. If we pack light and head out soon, I’m sure we can find lodging there. The ship should stay hidden here while I make the necessary repairs, and… I guess you can keep taking the Kid to the stone until it works.” She’s standing by Din now, looking down at the Child. “That’s our only hope.” 

Din grunts. “I hope it works. Ashoka told me to bring him here, but after that, I’m not sure what other leads we have.” 

“It’ll work,” the Girl says, reaching for Din’s arm to give it a comforting squeeze. “You’re doing the right thing.” 

_How is it that she reads his mind?_ Din knows that there’s no way in reality that she actually is, but even with his helmet on the Girl is so finely attuned to his emotions, knowing exactly how he feels just from the stiffening of his shoulders or his back. It’s like she can read him just from the way he stands or his posture, whether his weight is shifted to one side or the other. She’s staring up at him, her dimples hollowing as she smiles. 

“You’re giving him the best chance,” she assures. “You’re a good father, Din.” 

“You’re a good—” _Mother._ Din stops himself. _Why did he almost…_ “You’re a good pilot.” 

“Thanks.” She smirks. “But you’ve already said that.” 

The village is exactly as the Girl described. If Din had to compare it to another place he’s visited, it would be Sorgan. But this village is even more isolated than Sorgan, even quieter. Nestled in the Deep Core, Tython itself is a mystery—a planet so close to the edge of a black hole that its very existence feels treacherous. From the beautiful landscape, however, one might never suppose that; what greets them on the other side of the hill is a a picturesque settling, a small gathering of huts carefully constructed from all natural materials. Tall trees, twisted with age and prestige, crowd into the valley like a gaggle of gossiping friends sharing a secret.

In the dwindling sunset the mist has started to roll in between the hills, dousing the pastel light in a milky shroud. Although Din can’t feel the press of cold air on his bare skin, he almost shivers. _There is something sacred about this place._

“They seem more… conservative,” the Girl says. She’s choosing her words carefully, which is highly unusual for her. “Not exactly _conservative,_ but the villagers definitely have an aura about them. You’ll see.” They approach the huts, the Girl’s lantern bobbing in the twilight. “Let me speak, okay?”

Din nods. The villagers may have been more than welcoming of the Girl, but a Mandalorian always struck fear into the hearts of people—a fact Din used to his advantage more often than not.

As they near the huts, lingering villagers scurry inside. A lone figure, a short silhouette with a crooked back, hobbles slowly towards them. It’s an old woman, her weather-worn face etched in the twilight’s shadow. “Girl. You’re back so soon.” Warily, the elderly woman studies the Mandalorian. “And what have you brought with you?” 

“This is my…” The Girl pauses, the lantern swinging in the wind. “This is my—”

“I am her employer,” The Mandalorian states. “I have hired her to pilot my ship.” 

“A Mandalorian. And who is the little one?” The older woman juts her chin towards the Child, who is fast asleep in his floating crib.

“He is the child I spoke of earlier,” the Girl explains. “The one who must go with the Jedi.” 

“I see.” The older woman’s eyes dart between the Mandalorian and the Child. “You had no luck with the stone?” 

“Not yet.” The Girl shakes her head. “Not today. But we will keep trying.” 

“There have not been Jedi here for many years,” the woman murmurs. “But perhaps… perhaps they will come back.” 

Din is grateful for this; there is no bitterness in the woman’s words. “Yes,” he says. “Perhaps they will.” 

There is a long silence then, but it is not tense. It persists in comfort, so unlike the other silences that often fill the Mandalorian’s life. 

“Come,” the woman finally tells them. Her voice is kind. “I am Doma, the village elder. I can house the Girl and the Child in my spare room, and the Mandalorian can stay with my son.” She nods towards a separate hut. “I shall bring you there after.” Noticing the goosebumps on the Girl’s bare arms, Doma stops. “Dear, you are going to catch a chill.”

“I left most of my clothes on the ship,” the Girl replies. “H-had to travel l-light over that hill.” Her teeth are chattering. 

“Here.” The Mandalorian unclasps the fastening of the cape at his throat, pulling on the material until it’s free from his body. “Take it.” 

Their fingers brush as he hands the cape to the Girl, and her bright eyes catch his, holding his gaze for a few precious seconds. “Thank you.” 

In this dim light he can barely make out her features. The near darkness reminds him of moments alone with her, snippets of time they have stolen together, bodies twisting in the dim light of the Crest. As they trail after Doma, there is a solemness to the Girl’s expression. It’s comforting knowing that she feels the same way: Din doesn’t want to be away from her either.

Daringly, when Doma’s back is turned, Din reaches out and tangles his gloved fingers with the Girl’s for one blissful moment. 

“Settle in, Girl.” The old woman potters around her humble abode, gathering blankets. The flicker of the fire dances on the walls and on the ceiling. “Sit there and make yourself warm.” 

Din stands in the doorway, watching the Girl do as she’s asked. She tugs his cape tightly around her shoulders, tucking it around her chin. 

“Let me bring you to my son,” Doma says to the Mandalorian. “He is a good man, and tomorrow I can explain your task to the villagers.” 

“Thank you.” Even though the helmet is turned towards Doma, Din is watching the Girl, his eyes caressing her face for every last second he can look upon her tonight. The Girl’s face dips downwards, her nose brushing the material of Din’s cape. She peeks shyly out towards him, and somehow—even with all the physical barriers, even within all the strange circumstances—their eyes lock. He watches as she holds the cape to her face, inhaling, her eyelids heavy. _I’ll miss you._

“Come now,” Doma urges. “Come.” 

Din turns and follows her. 

***

Time drips by. 

Every day, Din takes the Child to the rock.

Every day, the Girl works on the Crest.

Every night, they sleep apart, their respective huts a stone’s throw away from one another. 

Five days pass like this. Din feels the drip of time slowing to a near standstill, like water stuck in a leaky tap. 

On the sixth day, Din jets down from the seeing stone after hours waiting for Grogu to do his magic. The Girl is a tiny speck from the sky, a figure moving slowly around the Crest. As he lands on his feet, her face turns towards him, her eyes lighting up. “Did he do it?” 

“No luck.” There’s a heaviness in Din’s voice today.

“Well…” The Girl’s voice trails off. “Maybe tomorrow.” 

Placing the Kid gently into the crib, Din shuts the doors with a press of a button and a metallic _thunk_. Reaching down to grab the Girl’s hip, Din tugs her towards him, making sure to keep his voice low. The crib isn’t totally soundproof.And they’re in broad daylight… in the middle of an open plain. 

“I need you,” Din tells her. He hates how needy he sounds. But he loves how her cheeks color with his one simple touch, with his simple words. “I miss your heat. Maker, I want to bend you over right here.” He trails his gloved fingers up her bare arm, his voice deepening as he pulls her body flush against his. “I want you in my mouth,” he whispers plainly, his fingers tracing her throat.

She swallows, staring up at him. “D-Din,” she tries to scold, trying to push him away. “The Kid—”

“ _Fuck,”_ he swears, grabbing her tighter, pressing his hips into hers. He hopes she can feel how hard he is. “What can we do?” 

“I don’t know.” The Girl bites her lip. “I’m—I’m going crazy too.” She pushes herself against him too, her back arching, her breaths coming faster. “I’ll figure it out. By tonight. I promise.” 

He grabs her chin, forcing her eyes up to his. “Okay.” 

Using all the willpower in the world, Din lets her go. 

* * *

Night doesn’t fall fast enough. After dinner, Doma needs help carrying a few stray pieces of timber from the forest to the village’s center. With the night vision built into his helmet, the Mandalorian is the natural pick.

After he finishes the job, the elderly woman coerces him into sitting next to her. She plainly pats the space beside her on a fallen log and expects to him to sit, waiting. He does. Din does not normally exchange words with Doma—they both prefer silence—but he finds her presence oddly comforting. They stay in their quiet, listening to the wind whistle through the trees. 

“I’m not familiar with the Mandalore,” Doma finally says. “Do all Mandalorians hide their faces?” 

“No.” 

“And what is the reason you hide yours?” 

Din hesitates. “I swore a creed to never let another living thing look upon my face.” 

“I see.” That is all Doma says. For a long while, she doesn’t further acknowledge what Din has told her.

Finally, she asks: “Have you heard the story of the Jedi?” 

“Some of it.” 

“Do you know why their order fell?” 

“No.” 

“They were a disciplined order. Governed by rules.” Doma is looking at the twin moons that hang in the Tython sky. “It was their strength. But it was also their downfall.” 

Din stiffens. “What do you mean?” An automatic defensiveness leaks into his tone. _Not everything is a battle,_ he reminds himself.

“What I mean, _child,_ ” Doma scolds, and though there are days where Din feels old, where his back hurts and his bones ache, he remembers the sheer age of this woman—the _wisdom_. “Is that there are powers that bind us together in this galaxy. Some we have a name for, some we don’t. I don’t just speak of the Force. And these bonds… they don’t fit into a box. More often than not they are a mess, as if created to tear us from our comforts. But they are the meaning life itself. To ask you to turn your back on that… perhaps this creed asks too much of you.” 

Din grunts. “Perhaps.” He looks away. “Perhaps I do not need to show my face.”

"Perhaps it is wise to swim in this galaxy's current," Doma sighs.

Din doesn’t have an answer to this.

Doma sighs again. “And perhaps it is also time for me to get back to my hut.” Doma extends her arm, and Din helps her up. “Come, child.” 

At the doorway of Doma’s hut, the Girl is waiting. The Child is soundly asleep, and the Girl’s dark hair pours loosely over her shoulders. She smiles sweetly at the older woman, wishing her a good night’s sleep. Then the Girl turns to Din. “Would you like to go for a walk?” 

They don’t walk side by side. Instead, the Girl leads him through a gap in the thick greenery on the periphery of the village. The forest floor is speckled with moonlight, and though the urgency to be inside her again all but possessed Din earlier today, there is something different in the air now. 

Their voices are whispers in the night. 

“There’s a small lake,” the Girls explains. “A very small lake, and it’s a very secret place apparently.” 

“And how do you know about this secret place?”

“Gossip. Though it’s far and few between in this place.” The Girl shrugs, looking around. “Or you could just have me here, against this tree—”

“No.” Din shakes his head. “Show me the lake.” He can’t explain the feeling that’s overcome him. 

It’s not really a lake, just like the Girl said. It’s almost the size of a pond. But it’s beautiful, absolutely breathtaking—one of the few sights that Din knows he’ll always remember for the rest of his life. The body of water sits in the middle of a mysterious clearing, and stumbling upon it feels unexpected even though he knows their destination. It’s like the lake is _meant_ to be hidden from the rest of the planet.

Clusters of tall grass almost as high as the Girl's head surround the water on all sides, shifting in the breeze. Din surveys the area. There is not a single heat signature for miles, not even a lonely, wild, creature searching for its next meal. Wind gently brushes the lake’s surface, the moonlight shimmering as the water crinkles. Luminous in the darkness, it looks to Din like a sheet of crumpled metal. _Molten metal._

“Wow,” the Girl exhales. The twin moons of Tython hang low in the sky, looming large above the pair of them. 

Din can’t bring himself to touch her.

Sensing his discontentment, the Girl doesn’t try to touch him either. Like he’s always suspected, she’s too adept at reading him, too skilled at knowing the emotions that he can’t untangle within himself. 

They stand in an awkward silence. 

She eventually grows tired of waiting for him. She tugs off her shoes, dipping her toes into the water.

“I’ll go for a swim,” the Girl says. “If you don’t mind. It’s not cold. Warmer than out here, funnily enough.” 

“Is it safe?” 

“Yes.” She grins at him. “Gossip got me that much.” 

He watches her strip down to her bare skin, and even though lust surges inside him again, Din still can’t bring himself to touch her. Rather than reach for her he squeezes his gloved hands together, plopping himself down by the bank of the lake. There is a small look of disappointment on the Girl’s face, like she’s expecting to be ravaged or ravished… but Din still _can’t touch her_. Not right now. 

“I won’t be long,” she says. 

“When you—” He pauses, and he’s about to drop the subject completely before the Girl nods encouragingly. He clears his throat. “—When you were flying. When the TIE came for us. What did you think about?” 

The Girl crosses her arms across her bare chest, searching for an answer. She cocks her head in thought.

“You. You and the Kid.” She chews her lip. “Is that all you wanted to ask me?” 

“Yes.” 

“Okay. Well…” She offers him a shy smile. “I’ll be back.” 

Din rests his elbows on his knees, his back hunched as he studies the curve of her waist. The Girl turns away from him, walking into the the water, the moonlight painting her skin a vivid shade of silver. It seems like she melts away, the lines of her dipping further and deeper into the water until all he can see is the dark of her hair. She swims further and further from him, her face tilted towards the moons. 

Din stops watching her. He stares downwards, down at his gloved hands which are still gripping each other. There is a sprinkling of dirt on the tip of his boot. He wonders… What does the dirt feel like? Beneath his feet, moist and rich? What does the wind… what does it feel like against his face, the slow crawl of it on his cheeks? How would the water lap against his skin? These are sensations Din has gone so long without that he can’t remember them anymore. He can’t even imagine them. _The feel of the Girl’s skin under his hands. The swell of her lips against his._ These are sensations more recent. Sensations he never wants to forget. 

_I just wanted you. I just want you._

What does it all mean? Why would one go so far? If not for a written set of rules, a social or mercenary contract, what is it that binds them together—the Girl, the Child and himself? What are these invisible ties, deeper than skin?

_Perhaps it is wise to swim in this galaxy's current._

Before meeting the Girl and the Child, Din had forgotten how to wonder. He had forgotten how to ask himself questions. A man of metal, a man of creed, hardened and immoveable. And now… he had saved the Child, he had gotten the Girl back. Yet there is still a hollow that persists within him, a growing space next to his heart that had expanded in resentment upon meeting Bo-Katan and her companions. Other Mandalorians. How easily they had taken their helmets off. How easily they had been free.

_Perhaps this creed asks too much of you._

His thoughts are broken by the Girl splashing in the water. He watches as she submerges her head completely, the top of it plunging below the glassy surface. For a moment he loses sight of her entirely and panic overcomes him. With great effort he tamps down the anxiety, telling himself how foolish it is. But as the Girl reemerges, Din’s heart is already pounding. His tongue feels swollen in his mouth, heavy. He understands now that every moment is fleeting, slipping through his fingers; and as he is, he’s unable to grasp at it. Every attempt is futile. The drip of time. Water falling back to the ground.

The hot moonlight pours downwards into the clearing. Under the armor his skin burns. 

The Girl looks exactly like how he dreamt. When she was away. When she was gone. 

His fingers grasp the edge of his helmet—

* * *

The water is lovely. How long has it been since you’ve had your last swim? It must have been a few years at least. 

Din’s being all quiet and you wonder what you’ve done this time. You’ve upset him. Maybe it was something you said, or maybe it was something that he had remembered you said. There are moments like this where he pulls away, disappearing within himself. So you try to give him space. You stare at the moons, memorizing their various crags and crevices. 

_Is that splashing coming from you?_

Your first instinct is fear—you almost whip your head around to look.

His voice cuts through the air. “Don’t turn around,” he says sharply. It’s his _unmodulated_ voice. “Not yet.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Din,” you gasp out. “You don’t know who’s around.” 

“I checked. There’s nobody here.” More splashing. “Okay.” He sounds... scared. “Turn around.”

You don’t.

His voice draws closer. “Turn around,” he says again.

“I’ll shut my eyes,” you blabber, your limbs still treading in the water. “I can shut my eyes.” 

“No.” His voice is so much softer now, almost a whisper. You can only hear it because he’s directly behind you. Under the surface of the water, you can feel the strong current he’s creating—his hands and legs kicking, pushing, keeping him afloat. Treading.

The water shifts around your body, sliding past your bare skin.

He says your name. “Turn around.” 

So you do. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll post the next update in a week instead of two since it’s already written. Also... appreciate your reblogs & comments from the last time. It feeds me. I’ve been getting a lot of questions about gifts/ko-fi... no need for that! This is my free work! Just comments. xx Etchy


	11. Wild

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: SMUT, mentions of purity kink.
> 
> A/N: Helmetless smut is here. Decided to leave the game for the next chap. I’ve updated this chapter to include the best of the “wild drabbles” I wrote, so now it’s almost twice as long.

_Din says your name. “Turn around.”_

_So you do._

The world spins. Grass and stars blend as you revolve, the resistance of water slowing your movements. When your eyes finally land on Din, the focus of your vision is soft, and for a few seconds he is nothing but a glorious blur of color in the darkness: the rich browns of his hair in this light, the burnt gold of his skin deep like desert sand. These are shades of him you’ve known, that you’ve coveted—hoarding them like treasure, locking them away in your memories. You blink, droplets falling slow from your lashes.

All at once, everything snaps into clarity. 

You see Din for the first time. 

You are no stranger to beauty. Growing up on Alderaan, you were constantly surrounded by it. During your numbered halcyon days you were inundated by it, stumbling drunk on the shimmer that shrouded everything you lay your eyes upon: buildings carved from white synthstone, nestled between snowcapped mountains; the mossy floors of rainforests pulsing with life; the spray of clouds that fell from jagged cliffs like water. From all of this, you know. True beauty is flawed—wild. It is impulsive, alarming, striking fear and wonder into your heart. You see it in the disorder of the stars, in the night that hangs heavy around you, billowing black and enormous.

Din is beautiful. He is a wild man, just as you expected. Through the long waves of his dark, curly, hair, soft brown eyes look back at you, twin pools brimming with emotion. He is fearful, just as you are. His brow, already etched with age, is crinkled further in hesitation, his thick eyebrows knitted tightly together. Under the pallid wash of moonlight, you can finally witness him: the angularity of his face, the high cheekbones, the strip of hair over his lips … the large bridge of his nose that he’s swept across your skin countless times. 

All that’s between you two is the glassy surface of the lake. It shifts quietly with the power of his strokes, and as Din tilts his head further from the water, the muscles in his neck flex. The reflection of his face extends, reaching towards you.

His beauty... it _scares_ you. 

“Din,” you whisper. “Your _creed._ "

He swims towards you silently. The steep slope of his shoulders slides into the lake, heaving with every careful breath of his. 

“You... You can’t give this to me,” you tell him.

He stops a foot away from you. “I’m not giving you anything.” You don’t understand what he means. It’s disorienting to see him truly speak, to watch his lips move at the exact same time you hear his unmodulated baritone; you’re unable to prevent the quiver that runs through you.

Your limbs sink. “Din.” You muster the courage to meet his eyes. His stare pierces through every atom of your being, searching for every broken shard and twisted fragment of your soul that you’ve managed to conceal thus far. And then—

Din _laughs_. 

When his face contorts, it’s so sudden that you initially think it’s a grimace of pain; on instinct you reach for him, lunging forwards. As soon as you do though, you realize that he can’t be in pain—far from it. It’s _joy_ ; pure, unadulterated, _joy_. Din throws his head back, his throat bared to the stars, laughter bubbling from his lips as he swims. If you thought he was beautiful before, that was simply superficial; tied to his euphoria it evolves into something more. _This_ is beauty, you decide. _This_ is sacred. _Let it devour you._ You’re unable to tear your eyes away from his laughter, unable to do anything but stare dumbly at him while your own smile creeps across your face. 

His laughter is stunted, unsure— _unused_. It rises to the surface in short, sharp, bursts, making it seem like he’s drowning.

“I’m sorry,” he says between gasps. “I’m sorry. I just— I just haven’t felt _this_ —” He raises a single hand above the surface of the lake, turning it slowly before his eyes in wonderment. There’s a single dimple on his right cheek, placed perfectly beside his curled lips. “I haven’t felt this in a long time.” 

It’s only then that you register it. The lap of water against your skin. The cool breeze, darting through the old trees of the forest, across the lake, finally caressing your exposed skin. Sensations you take for granted, that barely prickle on the periphery of your consciousness. Sensations that Din is experiencing for the first time in forever. All these delicious things—the impulsiveness of life itself— throb within your chest, and now within his. 

Your smile widens as you watch him. “When was the last time?” 

“When I was a child.” He sinks his hand below the water again. “When I was a boy.” Disbelief is ingrained in his voice, written all over his face. The apples of his cheeks lift upwards as he smiles at you, lips pulling back over white teeth. “What if…” Between his eyebrows sits the crease you’ve drawn your fingers across so many times—it deepens as he lets out a chuckle. He looks at you. “What if we do this?” 

“Do what?” You cock your head in confusion. 

Large hands suddenly snatch your waist, encircling it, his fingers rough against your belly. Din gives you a few fleeting seconds of warning—just enough time for you to take a deep breath—before his strong arms drag you downwards, the water rushing upwards past the crown of your head.

Below the surface of water, everything is dark and murky. The moon barely breaks through the top of the lake. Soft beams of light dance between your fingers as you look down, sinking with the force of his pull. All you can see is the blurry, pale, glow of Din’s skin in front of you, his head also completely submerged underwater; all you can feel is the brush of his lips against yours. Nothing else exists in this vacuum but you and him. His kiss is bruising, pressing an ache deep into your soul. 

As you come up for air, legs kicking, you shriek. “Din!” 

He gasps in reply, flinging the water from his soaked hair across the lake with a flick of his neck. The deep rumble of his laugh fills the night air. “Did you like that?” 

Before you can think, you scoop up some water and splash it right in his face. It’s muscle memory from your childhood, an action plucked from forgotten summers playing with your siblings in the lake behind your family home. 

Instantly, you both freeze. 

Din's taken aback, his surprise absolutely apparent; his jaw is slack, his mouth hanging almost completely open. His dark eyes blink at you. From what you’ve noticed so far, all of Din’s expressions are extremely candid. You realize that he's never had to worry about others reading his face, and your heart explodes with sentiment over with the immense privilege that he’s gifted you. Din _has_ given you something, whether he intended to or not. From this moment on his awareness of himself—of his _face,_ of the numerous expressions that it’s capable of—will only grow. Soon, Din will gain control, mastering his features; they will begin to morph, becoming increasingly more guarded as time wears on, and _soon_ —soon he will be like everyone else in this galaxy. Hiding, even without a helmet to shield him.

Now at least, in this very moment, you’re able to read his every emotion, to delight in every last tremor that runs through his heart. The manic glee that overcomes Din is so painfully obvious, on full display as he realizes what you’ve done. He swipes a hand over his face, attempting to wipe the remaining beads of water away. A playful grin cracks across his mouth.

And just as suddenly as you did, he splashes you with even more water than you expect, making certain to slap it right between your eyes. 

“Stop!” You cross your arms in front of you, squealing. He keeps splashing as you move backwards, heading towards the shore. Struggling in vain to defend yourself, you giggle as your feet finally touch the sandy bottom. “Din!”

He says nothing in return. But he’s laughing, his lungs filling with oxygen, his full chest rising with emotion, the beautiful roll of his velvet laughter swelling in the cool night air. There’s nothing better in this universe than Din's smiling face, you decide. Your heart shivers at the way his eyes crease at the edges, the fine lines crinkling as he surrenders completely to his own amusement. You paddle through the lake and he chases you, reaching for you as you swim continuously out of his wingspan. He desperately grabs at you, his calloused fingers trailing across different patches of your skin. 

“Come back here.” His hand finally latches tightly onto your hip, dragging you through the water forcefully back to him. 

It’s shallow enough to stand now.

Ever so slowly, Din finds his footing and rises out of the water. He towers over you with those broad shoulders, holding you in place as he does. At his full height the surface of the water only reaches his hips, the edge dancing right below his trim waist, right below the trail of dark hair that runs down his golden abdomen.

Your hands sink to your sides. You aren’t able to breathe or look away from him. He’s so beautiful, and you feel that deep, satisfying ache low in your body, burning in your pelvis and in your back. Water drips from the soaked tips of Din’s hair as he tilts his face down to stare at you, the beads of moisture trickling down his face, past his neck, rolling down his bare, scarred, chest. 

And even though you’ve never been able to picture his face properly before, it _fits_. All of it… _fits_. Like his name. _Din._ You just never imagined he could be this gorgeous. 

“Come here,” he says.

You don’t kiss him. You step closer so that your bodies are pressed together as tightly as can be—but you don’t kiss him. Instead you make yourself wait, resisting, pushing against every fiber of your being, exhaling into the crisp air between your bodies.

You take the opportunity to study the lines of his face. You brush your fingers against his cheek, tilting his face further into the moonlight; Din doesn’t protest, doesn’t protest in the slightest. He lets you examine him exactly how you want, blessing you with the precious time it takes to discover him. All the while, his soft brown eyes never leave yours. He’s watching you, observing you as carefully as you are him. 

His chest shudders. "What are you thinking?” He finally asks, voice trembling. His shoulders are stiff. Whatever he was searching for on your face, it seems that he was unable to find it.

“Nothing,” you reply honestly. “I’m just looking at you.” You’re overwhelmed, almost numb with amazement. “You’re a beautiful man, Din Djarin.” 

He reaches for your hand and you give it to him without a second thought. For a few heavy seconds he holds it, his thumb smoothing over your knuckles. Slowly, like he's still moving underwater, he lifts your hand up to his face, pressing your palm gently to his cheek. His eyelids flutter, straining to stay open. Then, he moves your hand to his mouth and kisses it. 

Your lips part, your skin bristling with this single touch. Through it all his eyes never leave yours, not even for a mere second. The weight of his devotion crushes you, the pressure sinking you until you’re beneath the top of the lake again, all senses snatched from your body. The sheer _pleasure_ of it—of his intense yearning forged from all the powerful old forces in this world—is so pure, so incredibly _raw_. You thought you knew the depth of this emotion, of the lengths you would go for him and him for you—but _no_. Only now can you truly sense the vastness of it, stretching on, expanding with no end in sight. 

Every muscle in your body is frozen, tied down with invisible threads, every nerve under your skin firing with electricity as Din’s hands drop to your hips. When he finally kisses you, his neck craning downwards, his lips seeking out your open mouth, your head _spins_. You part your lips further to let him in, allowing him to gently explore every inch of your mouth with his tongue—even when your eyes finally fall shut, cutting you off from the world, the sensation is extreme. 

Din’s thick arms circle you, bringing you even closer. You feel faint, dizzy, his touches driving you to the very brink of consciousness. The skin of your face and throat turns hot when he suddenly moans into your mouth, his thunderous baritone reverberating across your lips as he lifts you, imploring you to cling to his shoulders and wrap your legs around his trim waist. With his strong arms he carries you from the water effortlessly, walking up towards the shore where his armor and helmet lie. 

“Take my cape,” he mumbles against your lips, setting you down on your feet. “Take it and lay it down on the ground.” _Then lay back on it._ He doesn't need to voice the last part.

You do as he says. There’s a ritual to it; you feel his eyes locked upon you as you go through the motions. Occasionally you look back to see Din’s hands clenching into fists at his sides, his fingers shaking in restraint. His jaw is locked tight, and as your back finally hits his cape and you stare up into his eyes… he hovers, still waiting. Your heart beats erratically in your chest, pounding against your ribs like a caged animal. Above your naked bodies the twin moons of Tython dangle in the dark sky, one shrouded with shadow, the other a glowing orb. 

You wait for him with baited breath. Din sinks to his knees in front of you, but his descent doesn't stop there. He bends forwards, his head dipping as he tenderly presses his mouth to the tops of your feet. _He’s worshipping you,_ you realize. 

Suddenly shy, you sit up. "Din," you say, resting a hand on his shoulder. You're not sure what you're asking.

Usually Din’s the one that talks in these moments; he’s the one that fills the air with filth and fantasy. But right now he’s so quiet, so revering, his dark eyes roaming over every inch of your naked body. His chest is frozen like he barely remembers how to breathe. The unthinkable decadence of his silence, of him rendered mute like this—that’s the only thing that fills the air now. 

He eases you backwards again, bracing a strong arm beside your head before leaning over you, studying your eyes with a ridiculous intensity. _How can it be possible that anyone could make you feel so beautiful? How can it be that anyone should possess this miraculous power?_ You turn your face away, your eyes darting from him and falling to the ground next to you. 

"Look at me," he demands softly. The deep roll of his voice booms out into the quiet. Unable to resist, you bring your gaze back to his. "Look at me when I taste you." 

You watch helplessly as he dips his lips into the hollow of your clavicle, sucking gently. Making sure his eyes never leave yours, Din trails his hot mouth down your sternum, stopping at your breasts, slowly licking at your nipples, taking his sweet time in lavishing attention over each perked bud. He drags his textured tongue repeatedly over the both of them as he lets out a tortured groan. You can only whimper in reply.

You’re on _fire_ —the ache in your chest flares outwards, engulfing your entire body in a sweltering heat. 

“It was never like this with anyone else,” you manage to whisper. Your body: it belongs to him. Even though this moment should be about him and his face, it truly feels like you’re finally letting him claim every inch of you.

“Yes,” he murmurs back to you. “For me, too.” 

Din trails his lips down your belly, brushing the sharp edge of his nose past the points of your hips, moving his face against the delicate skin of your inner thighs. He tests every ounce of your patience, weighing each drop of your desperation. He inhales deeply when he finally reaches the apex of your legs. He’s tasted you a million times in the past within the darkness. You would venture as far to say that he actually _craves_ your taste, misses it in its absence. He’s told you that much. It might be an obsession, one that you can understand, considering how wrapped up you are in him.

Nothing in this galaxy could have prepared you to actually seehis expression, to witness the violence of the desire in his eyes as he tastes you from the source, sticking his tongue out from his lips and dipping it languidly between your soaked folds. The sheer need in gaze—the filthy visual of him tasting you—arouses you more than you thought possible, obliterating the last vestiges of your sanity, and you’re unable to keep quiet any longer.

His eyes darken with lust as you let out a sudden whimper, his gaze still latched directly onto yours. He moans in reply, right into your wet skin, his eyelids heavy and half-lidded as he begins to devour your cunt.

_Stars,_ it's just... _wonderful._

“Fuck,” you whine out, back arching. It's a needy little sound, pitchy even to your own ears. His neck starts to droop as he licks at you, and so you tug roughly at his long locks, urging his eyes back up to yours. “Oh _yes_ , Din—” You shamelessly grind your hips into his face as his lips surround your aching clit, gently beginning to suck. 

Din's eyes fall shut. He groans again, savoring your flavor through the vibration of his sounds, his large hands snaking up your torso to clutch at your heaving tits for just a moment. He pulls away. "Always taste so fucking good," he grits out. “I want you all over my face. I want... I want all of you.” 

Utterly depraved, his eyes drop between your legs, looking at you without hesitation. His lips part again in amazement, his mustache completely soaked with your slick. Your reply dies when Din cups his hands under the swell of your ass, easily lifting your pussy up to his face just so his mouth has better access. You think he’s going to stop there, but he _doesn’t_. He keeps burying his head between your legs, his mouth dipping downwards, brushing lightly over your other tight, virgin, entrance, finally tasting you _everywhere._

With the sinfulness of this your neck stiffens, your head finally falling back at the insane hedonism of it. Somewhere within the thick haze of your arousal, you know that you're right. It _is_ an obsession. “Din,” you gasp. “Din, I’m going to cum.”

He doesn’t pause, doesn’t hesitate, his thumb starting to roughly circle your clit as he groans, licking and tasting every bit of you. It’s uncoordinated, so fucking _messy_ , but then again there’s no sense—none at all—to this madness. You don’t know where he ends and where you begin. _And it doesn’t matter._ Your orgasm tears through you.

You cum all over his face, crying out into the open night. _You really do hope this is a secret place._ And to your surprise, your pleasure doesn’t end there; it extends like a single thread into the darkness, stringing you onwards as he finally pulls away, clambering up your body. 

“I need you,” he moans. His face is damp with your cum, and your pussy clenches around nothing, painfully empty as he licks his lips, swiping at them with the back of his hand. “I fucking need you, is it ok if I…”

_“Yes,”_ you beg. Your entire body is tingling, your orgasm persisting on. You ache for more. He hasn’t even penetrated you, not even with his fingers, but you don’t care. You need him _now_. “Go slow,” you plead as he lines up the throbbing head of his cock with your entrance, his breath hitching at your words. “I want to feel every inch of you.” 

His eyes spark. _“Fuck_ , y-you can’t say things like that.” 

“It’s true,” you insist, your fingers tangling with the curls at the nape of his neck. “I want to feel every inch of you.” Staring into his eyes… it’s so fucking intimate. There’s nothing to hide. You feel as if you’re touching the raw essence of him, like a live wire. His eyes flicker helplessly across your face, searching for reassurance. “I want every inch of you, Din.” 

He growls in response.

He presses into you slowly, his dark eyes fixed upon yours the entire time. You both gasp, your moans meeting and melting together in the night. You’re so wet that there’s no resistance at all, but you’re too tight and he’s too big for it not to sting slightly. Your eyelashes flutter against your cheek, your eyes threatening to fall shut; you resist, not wanting to miss a thing about this experience, exhaling carefully and letting the pain vanish.

You can see the worry in his eyes, and you shake your head slightly, telling him _it’s okay._ Din’s expression shifts constantly as he watches your reaction, and you see the vividness of every emotion which runs across his face, flickering in quick succession: pleasure, satisfaction, concern, joy, yearning—all of his vulnerability twists into the one, single, sacred thing that exists between the two of you. 

“It feels so _good_ ,” he slurs out, his baritone sinking lower. “You feel so fucking _good_.” 

He starts to move, thrusting into you slowly, kissing you, pushing his naked body further into yours.

Just like you wanted, he fucks you unhurriedly, allowing you to trulyfeelhim, letting you savor every vein and ridge on his hard cock. Every single time he sheathes himself to the hilt Din takes a moment to grind his hips into you, holding the head of his cock right against your g-spot for a few aching seconds to let you feel how deep and tight he’s pressed inside of you. His large hands cradle your head and grab your breasts, grounding your body as he plunges into you again and again.

“Do you like that?” He asks, his breath shuddering with every thrust. “Does it hurt?” He’s concerned.

You lick at the muscles of his thick, corded, neck. “Yes,” you reply breathlessly. You nod. You’re not sure what question you’re answering, but it’s alright. “Keep going.” 

“S-shit,” he hisses, moaning as your lips fasten onto his neck. “ _Shit,_ k-keep doing that—” 

You feel the burn within you, shooting up your spine and across your chest. This position is strenuous; not just for him, but for you too. You wind your hips slowly to meet his and eventually the motion of his cock pushes you straight into another orgasm. You cry out his name against his lips, your nails raking slowly down the rippling muscles of his back. He stills completely, holding you as your entire body shakes, your pussy pulsing around him. 

_“Yes,_ ” he chokes out. The lust from his eyes spreads across his face like wildfire as he watches you cum, his expression growing even more desperate, his mouth hanging open in a small little circle. His breaths come heavy across your cheeks in sharp pants. A beautiful pink flush colors his cheeks. “Yes, just like that, just like that, _good girl,_ good, good—” 

You can’t stop cumming. The lower half of your body locks up so tight as you stare up into his soft eyes, the slow roll of Din’s hips breaking as he strains, trying to persist, trying to hold on to this thread of pleasure that you’ve both grasped onto, the ecstasy of the moment unspooling your minds. He swears again and you plead for him, your face wet with tears as he makes you cum _again—_

The thread unravels, snapping in an instant. Din’s back bends like you’ve punched him, and he plunges into you as deeply as he can go, filling you to the brim with his seed. There’s so much of it that you can hear the mess it makes, even through his groans—you can hear how fucking wet your cunt gets as it’s painted with his cum. His body quivers under your hands, shaking, every muscle twitching in pleasure as he stares into your eyes, moaning out your name.

You feel _connection_ , but not only that—you feel _power._ Just like you belong to him, he belongs to you now, his pleasure, his pain—all of him. 

His back crumples suddenly, his forehead resting against your shoulder. “Fuck,” he grits out. “ _Maker,_ I can’t move.” 

“I know.” He’s heavy, crushing you against the ground. But you’re utterly fulfilled, completely content in this post-orgasmic bliss. 

The impulsiveness of everything he’s done tonight sits with the both of you like an old friend. Nothing feels bad—and you finally understand, finally comprehend what he means when he says he hasn’t given you anything. You turn to look at him, at his resting face, at the way his eyelids flutter open, contemplating you.

He’s _free._

You move closer and his eyes fall shut once more. He’s older than you expected, the age clear from the wrinkles. You slowly press your lips to each of his eyelids, to his broad nose and to his cheeks. You take your time moving from feature to feature, devoting to memory what he’s shown you tonight. Din starts trembling, his damp skin vibrating as you worship him in return. Worried, you pull away.

But Din leans forwards, closing the distance between your faces again—

He doesn’t kiss you. Instead he licks your cheek, where your tears lie, almost dry by now. He mouths at them, consuming you, and it only makes you tear up even more.

“Don’t cry,” Din whispers. “Please don’t cry.” 

His desperation, his fear and distress over the tiny droplets on your cheeks—it makes you smile and giggle at the ridiculous tenderness of it. Taken aback, Din finally smiles, and a bolt of joy hits your chest, running right through the center of your being. Perhaps you will never feel as full as you do in this moment, maybe never again—but that’s okay. You hope that there are more fragments of time like this for you to spend together, alone, with no one to disturb this quiet bond between you, but even if not you’ll never regret how deeply you’ve fallen in love with him. Your body feels heavy, burdened with the knowledge of your own emotions, but it’s alright. It’s all alright. 

He doesn’t pull away. He stays inside you, holding you close. 

“How many days have we slept apart?” Din asks. 

“Six nights now,” you answer. 

“Six.” He hums under his breath. 

“Din…” You reach up to brush the wet hair out of his face, tracing the lines around his eyes. “You’re… _old.”_

Fear crosses his face, and for a moment you curse yourself, thinking that you’ve hurt him—but then he bursts into a chuckle. “What?” 

“Sorry,” you wince. “Sorry, I just… I just said whatever came to mind—” 

“I _am_ old,” he says. “To _you_. To Doma, though—” 

You wince again. “Don’t mention Doma right now.” 

“I didn’t mean to.” He chuckles again. “The Kid is fifty. Older than me.” 

“You’re _kidding,_ ” you gasp. “That’s unbelievable.”

“It is,” Din agrees. He pauses, his face growing serious. His long hair is still wet, and water drips from the tips to the ground, soaking his cape. “He doesn’t want to go.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“The Kid doesn’t want to leave me.” Din rolls over onto his back, exhaling. “That’s why he hasn’t used the stone.” He thinks on this for a moment, his brow furrowing. “And I… I don’t know how to let him leave.” 

His confession lingers in the air. You bite your lip, struggling to find the right words. 

“It takes… time,” you finally say. “It takes time to leave. Especially when you love what you’re leaving.” Your heart aches. “I loved my family. When I ran away from home, it took me months to gather the courage. To tell myself not to be afraid.” You shrug. “It just takes time. All you can do is be patient.” 

Din doesn’t reply for a while. Finally he turns to you, settling his stare into your eyes, searching once again for an answer there. You wonder how many times he’s done this and how you’ve never known, all because he was wearing the helmet. His belief in you—his complete trust—shakes you. “And… you’re fine waiting here? Day by day?” 

You nod. “Of course,” you whisper. “I’m fine.” 

He presses a slow kiss into your cheek. “I don’t know how I can be apart from you any longer.” 

You deliberate this. It _was_ a problem. “We…” You trail your fingers over his back. “We could… make a game out of it. I mean, if you wanted.” 

“What do you mean?” He waits for you to answer. He’s genuinely confused—you can tell by his half-smile. Adorable.

“Like… you don’t know me,” you gulp. The thought had occurred to you in the dark of the night as you lay in Doma’s hut, missing Din. On the third night, to be exact. But it was a corrupt thought, something you would never _admit_ turned you on as much as it did. Until now. “So… maybe we can pretend. Like… you’re the Mandalorian, and I live in this village, and I haven’t met you before, and I haven’t ever done—I haven’t done anything in my life—”

You tear your eyes away from his, unable to bear the question in his look.

“Wait.” Din’s entire body stiffens, and he exhales loudly, grabbing at your hip. _Is he… trying to calm himself?_ “Wait. Sorry. Tell me. Continue.” 

“Um…” _Maker_ you’re nervous. “So I haven’t ever done anything at all, and you’ll have to like… maybe you can… maybe you have to teach me—”

_“Fuck,”_ Din swears, cutting you off. “If you’re saying what I think you’re saying…. Sweet girl, look at me.” His fingers grasp at your chin, tilting your eyes back to his.

You do look at him. And just like that, seeing his beautiful face, seeing his care for you so... so _visible_ and confronting—you feel no shame. Any hesitation you had melts away, his soft eyes urging you onwards. “Yes,” you admit. “I am saying what you think I’m saying.” He’s still inside you, and you feel him start to harden. “Would you like that?” 

Hunger spreads across his face. “Yes,” he says firmly. “Yes, I think that could make things more… bearable.” His fingers trace your arm gently, petting your skin. “If you’re okay with it, we can talk about it more, but I’m sorry—right now—” To your surprise, he pulls out of you, making as if to stand. “First let’s find a tree.” 

“What?”

“You said I could have you against a tree.” 

“Din—”

“Six nights,” he says abruptly. “So six times.” He grabs at your hand, hauling you to your feet. “Let’s go.” 

“Din!” You stand too, struck still by his enthusiasm. 

“Fine,” he grunts. “If you want to be difficult.” Stepping towards you, he braces an arm under your ass, lifting you easily with one arm. “Let’s find that tree.” He latches his lips onto yours.

_Beautiful,_ you think. _Beautiful, wild, man._ And as he wanders deeper into the forest, holding you tightly to him, you press your cheek to his, wondering how in the galaxy you managed to find him. 

* * *

“What was your life like?” The Girl is leaning against Din’s chest when he finally works up the nerve to ask the question. In an absentminded fashion, the pads of his fingers trace small circles into the curve of her shoulder. His back is propped against the worn trunk of an old tree. “Before you met me? I’ve never been to Alderaan.”

Unconsciously the Girl snuggles closer to his warmth, smiling when Din lets out a small “ _oof_ ” at the added weight. They’re both still catching their breath after the second time. Besides the gentle wind and a few stray insects, only Din’s words linger in the air.

“Alderaan was…” The Girl pauses, her bright eyes darting out into the depths of the forest. Din watches as the words stopper in her throat. “It was home,” she finally says.

Din waits. He knows that a lesser man would have interrupted her there, but he has an inkling that the Girl hasn’t yet finished her train of thought. His fingers don’t ease their slow movements over her skin as he waits, patient as always.

He catches a small glimpse of what’s between her legs as she curls her knees up—he sees the trickle of his own cum, hot and sticky at the apex of her thighs. He’s losing himself in the soft pull of her skin, his mind rapidly becoming untethered with every slow motion his hands make. Most of what he’s handled in his hands is defined by metallic qualities: a good, solid, blaster, made to kill; a strong beskar spear, made to strike. Din can’t believe that he gets to hold this—to hold _her_ —now.

The Girl squints up through the canopy, struggling to find the few stray stars visible through the leaves. After a few moments, she finally begins to speak. “My family had a history in politics. I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned it.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Not just my parents, but my grandparents and those before them… My parents themselves were ministers on the capital planet in the Alderaanian system. Well-respected ones, as far as politicians go. So in our household, for me and my two younger brothers—education was the most important thing. On our entire planet, too. _Read,_ my parents told me. _Learn_.”

The Girl arches her back against him, and Din struggles to focus on her words; but he does, mounting a gargantuan effort because it would be a disservice not to. His mind hones in again on the feeling of her skin beneath his fingers, the filth clearing from his brain. “Go on,” he says, kissing the top of her head.

“So I did. I read everything I could. I memorized the star charts. I flew anything and everything that I could get my hands on. But the only thing we never learned about was war. And for the longest time, I never cared to learn about it. It seemed so distant, like an old story or legend that an old crone in a park would tell you.” The Girl begins to chuckle, but stops when she realizes what she’s said. Hurriedly she looks back over her shoulder at Din, searching his expression for any hint of hurt.

“I’m not offended,” Din tells her. He gifts her another tender kiss, this time on the column of her neck. He stares dumbly at the goosebumps that break out across her skin. _How could it be that he could illicit such a reaction?_ It fascinates him. He pulls her in closer. “All I learned of was war. This is the way. I never expect that of anyone else. Our Mandalorian creed… we were told that the path of a warrior was all that existed.”

The Girl nods, settling against Din’s chest again. He drops his hands to her waist, relishing the feel of the skin there: the smoothness of her belly, rising and falling with her every breath. Din was taught as a child that this section of a human—the belly—was vulnerable, easy and open to attack. How differently he views it now with the Girl in his arms.

“That’s the thing, though. War. It does exist.” She’s silent for a few moments longer. “I know I lived a blessed life on Alderaan. When I… When I remember the beauty of it all, of the planet, of the schools, of the city… of my own house… I realize I could have stayed there with my parents and my brothers, flying, learning the ancient texts and reciting the pretty words of poets. For all their enthusiasm about learning, my parents never let me stray very far from Alderaan. Even in the little ships I would fly. But I wondered about _it_.”

“About what?”

“The big ‘moon’ in the sky.”

“I didn’t think Alderaan had any natural satellites.”

“It doesn’t.” Din feels the Girl’s spine tense against his chest. “It was a moon of metal.”

He exhales when he realizes what she’s saying. “The Death Star.”

“Yes. The Death Star.” Her breath feels brittle, her frame growing smaller as she hunches; Din’s never wanted to protect her more. “And I wondered why the Empire would ever need such a massive weapon. When I started learning, I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t turn away like my parents did. They were good people. Wise up to a certain point. Yet I couldn’t stop thinking about the life we led, and the cost of it—the cost of our silence. It was naive of me. But my beliefs drove my courage at the time, the courage it took to run away, to steal that clunky blaster from my father’s study.”

“Not much of a weapon.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “It’s not a good weapon at all. Like I said, my parents knew nothing of war. Alderaan had already been quietly supporting the rebels when I joined the fleet. I thought I had learned what I could, but the truth is I knew nothing. Not until then.”

She stops talking.

“I’m sorry I asked,” he says.

“No.” She shakes her head. “No, I want you to know. I want you to—”

The Girl’s voice breaks before she can finish. Din’s hands pause their stroking, and he just holds her. As strange as it seems, Din knows that his presence soothes her. It’s counterintuitive, directly opposing everything that he’s experienced before. He’s a Mandalorian. His hands—hands that killed, that broke bone and triggered pain—were never meant to touch her. But by some miracle, by some twisted piece of fate… he, Din Djarin, brings the Girl relief. 

After a few moments he resumes his motions over her skin. He pets her hair, tracing small, random, patterns all over her body. His fingertips follow the swell of her breast, enjoying how her nipples harden at his touch, flushing pink; his hands trail down to the curve of her hips, savoring the feel of them, the waves under his palms so defiant and lovely. He thinks that even if a threat emerged—that even if he should look away—he wouldn’t be able to turn from the Girl like this, soaked in moonlight. She’s so precious. She’s so very precious to him, worth more than any beskar prized and fought over.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs to her. He turns her body gently, easing her up into his lap to straddle him. He knows he must look stupid. His jaw is completely slack, his mouth hanging open as he studies her torso and her chest.

“Din,” she whispers, running her own fingers over his scalp. The utterance of his name compels him to find her eyes; he loves how they flicker with longing and lust, with emotions unnamed and twisted in others. “Kiss me please.”

How could it be that he could illicit such a reaction?

* * *

_“F-fuck.”_

You’re back by the lake again. Din’s lying on his back, on his cape. You lean over him, straddling his waist, peppering kisses on the nape of his neck.

“Stop.” His hands grip your shoulders, yanking you away from him.

Din twitches beneath you as you whisper into his ear. “Are you okay?”

He’s panting like he’s just sprinted across an open field. “I-I’m more than okay.” He catches your lips with his, groaning as you roll your hips. “It just… it feels so good when you do that.” He tries to sit up.

You don’t allow it, placing a palm on his chest and pushing him back to the ground. “When I do what?” You tease him through his surprise, your tongue darting out to lick the sensitive patch of skin behind his ear. You feel his abs tense beneath your thighs, his grip tightening on your waist as you roll your hips again. “ _This_?” He lets out a broken moan at the renewed friction. “Or _this_?” You latch your lips onto his neck, kissing, sucking…

“Maker—” Din twitches and tries to sit up again, but you use all your strength to push him back down.

“Let me take care of you.” You shoot him your best glare, but it’s not serious. You just want him to lie back and relax for once. His default status is always high alert, but tonight feels different. He feels more at ease than before, less worried about anything that could potentially go wrong. At the back of your mind, you remind yourself to thank the local village girls for their gossip. “I want to take care of you.”

Din’s expression is so gentle. Never in a million years would you have imagined him ever looking this gentle beneath the helmet. Maybe it’s only when he looks at you, but it’s also due to the large brown eyes that tilt gently at the edges; or maybe it’s the dark, floppy, hair and his brilliant smile. You press a kiss to his big nose, feeling your heart squeeze when he nuzzles back at you.

He doesn’t say anything in response but you can feel it when he relents, when he relaxes and fully eases back onto the cape. You press another flurry of kisses across his face. As you trail your mouth from one side of his sharp jaw to the other he begins to gasp into the night air, trying in vain to control his breathing.

“Relax,” you murmur into his neck, noticing that his hands have tightened into fists at his sides. You rub his arms, trying not to be completely shameless as you feel his biceps clenching and unclenching beneath your hands. “You can tell me to stop anytime.”

“ _F-fuck._ ” He swears again, watching you intently as you kiss a path down the center of his chest, only stopping to dip your tongue into the valley between his firm pecs. “You’re going to kill me.”

You don’t reply immediately, opting instead to move further down his slim abdomen, moaning softly when his abs visibly contract under your ministrations. “I’ve been thinking about this all week.”

He runs a hand over his face, shielding his eyes from the stars. His chest heaves for few moment before he draws his hand away, staring at you helplessly. “Don’t tell me that.”

“Why not?” You tangle your tongue in the trail of hair that leads to his crotch, smirking when his breathing halts. His brown eyes are wide and he’s not exhaling, still watching your every movement. “It’s true.”

“When you tell me things like that, I won’t be able to stop…” His eyes begin to glaze over as you start kissing your way around the base of his cock, his eyelids fluttering as you dart your tongue out and moan shamelessly at the taste of him. “…I won’t be able to stop thinking about you l-like this.”

“I like your eyes.” You flutter your lashes up at him, giving him your most innocent look as you part your lips and lave your tongue up and down the rigid length of him. A thread of spit connects your lips and the head of his cock as you pull away. “And I like your taste. I think about sucking your cock all the time.” You’ve barely finished speaking when you lean forwards again, licking away the swelling bead of precum. Bringing your fingers up to your lips, you smear his slick across them, making it even messier. “All I think about is how I want to take care of you.”

He lifts his neck further off the ground to gape down at you, the muscles in his neck flexing and his mouth open. His pupils flicker from your eyes to your mouth, loosely focusing on your every action. “W-what do you mean?” Din’s hands clench into fists again, and this time he runs a hand through his own hair, gripping at the long fringe as if to anchor himself—to stop himself from floating off into space.

“I want to make sure you’re taken care of. All the time.” Wrapping your lips around the tip of his cock, you begin to suck and lightly bob, keeping your eyes on his. He lets out a gasp, pulling his hair harder.

“Oh _fuc—_ ”

Before he finishes swearing, you pull back, your lips making a satisfied _pop._ You enjoy it when his entire body jolts. You smirk at him. “I’ll do whatever you want to make you feel good.” 

“Oh _fuck_. _”_ Din’s panting hard now, staring into your eyes. You can detect a flush on his cheeks, deepening with every passing second. “Stop t-teasing me.” It’s the highest you’ve heard his voice—ever.

“What do you mean?” You brush your lips softly over the tip of him. “I’m not sure what you mean about teasing—”

Something snaps in him then.

“Be good.” His voice drops several octaves as he reaches down to cup your cheek, moving your hair away from your face. His eyes drop to your own heaving chest, to your perky nipples as he runs the pad of his thumb over your lips. You latch onto the digit, pulling it into your mouth.

“Go on,” he commands breathlessly. He rests his hand on the back of your head, almost in a threat. “Since you want to so badly.” Then he pulls away his hand away quickly, tucking it behind his head as he props himself up. Your pussy clenches at the sight, of how _strong_ he looks from this angle. “Take care of me.”

Sliding downwards again, you shift your weight onto your knees. You’re already so fucking needy when you catch sight of the single dimple on his cheek. He’s smirking. _Insufferable._

“Yes,” you say. “I’ll take care of you.”

* * *

Din wants to touch the Girl so badly.

“It’s your turn to be good,” she tells him. She’s standing in front of him, drenched in the hot moonlight, her body bare and beautiful like it’s been for almost the entire night.

“I—”

“No.” She cuts him off. “I was good for you, and now it’s my turn.”

“But—”

“Din.” She squints at him. “I was good, wasn’t I?”

“Yes,” he relents. He’s slightly distracted even remembering what she did with her mouth. “But—”

“You said I was good.” The Girl stands on her toes, kissing him. “Unless you didn’t actually think so, then I won’t ever do it aga—”

‘Don’t say that. Of course it was good,” Din cuts in between kisses. The images—memories from mere moments ago—rush to the forefront of his mind: the Girl moaning around his cock, her bright eyes fastened onto his as she earnestly works her hot, wet, mouth down his length. All the while he lay back, letting her do all the work for once. Din swallows, tracing the plump of her lower lip as he remembers this, feeling all his blood rush downwards, further away from his brain.

“It was so good,” he insists again. “It was so—” His hands slither down the smooth skin of her back, following the arch of her waist and cupping her ass to pull her right against him. He can sense her resistance break on contact, if only a little. “—it was so _kriffing_ good—”

The Girl stops him there, firmly pushing him away from her with a palm to his chest. “Then,” she says pointedly. “It’s your turn to be good for me.” He’s always known the Girl’s powerful in her own right—so strong and unshakeable when she wants to be—but Din thought she only used her feminine wiles for good. She’s taunting him now, teasing him, torturing him even though this entire week has already been nothing _but_ torture.

“What do you want?” He shoots her a confused look as she gathers his hands and gives them back to him.

“Sit.”

With a palm on his chest again, she moves him backwards until the back of knees bump gently into the smooth surface of a nearby rock.

“And watch me,” she says. “Just watch. No touching.”

He lowers himself onto the rock, but he can’t help the frustration that slips into his low growl. “Why are we doing this again?”

“I need to know you’ll be good this next week,” she explains, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. “When we play the game.”

Din feels himself instantly harden. “Of course I’ll be good at playing a game,” he grunts. “I’m very good at games. I hunt people for a living.”

“This time will be different though,” the Girl insists. “This is a very small village. Remember: I’ve never even left Tython, so you’ll have to be polite to me. Good with me.”

“I am good,” Din growls, reaching for her. She steps out of his reach, making it impossible for him to touch her without standing from the rock. “I was good before I touched you, wasn’t I?”

“No you weren’t.” The Girl silences him with a raised eyebrow. “You were teasing me. All those touches, and how you looked at me all the time—”

“I don’t know why that’s a bad thing,” Din protests. “It’s not like you can blame me. And it won’t be that different this time.”

“ _Hmm._ Yes. And no.” The Girls own hands smooth over the bend of her waist, trailing upwards, her fingers shamelessly ghosting over the sides of her round breasts and moving up her neck. Din’s eyes are instantly drawn to the motion.

A rabid desire grows in his chest. He wants to reach for her, but he’s trying to actually listen—trying so hard to be good like she wants. “Tell me how it’s different.”

“Well, I’ve never done anything before,” the Girl finishes. She bats her lashes and shoots him that shy look—the cute one—the expression she has to know just drives him wild. “And… you’re so much older than me Din. You know so much more. You’ll have to be gentle.”

Din wants to be anything but gentle right now. The innocence of the Girl’s face at this very moment makes him want to grab at her hips and sit her right down on top of his aching length. But he’s slightly offended at her insinuation, no matter how right she may be.

“I can be gentle.”

Truthfully, Din’s not so certain. He’s going to try his best because that’s the nature of the game, and if there’s one thing Din hates more than anything, it’s losing. Even though his voice is trembling—and so are the hands that rest on the tops of his thighs—he wants more than anything to show the Girl he can play by her rules. Every muscle in his body is tense, clenched tightly. It’s a fantasy that has visited on many a night, though he tries not to indulge too often.

“I don’t know.” The Girl pouts, running her hands slowly across every inch of her bare torso again, over every inch of her delicious skin. He wants her breasts in his face, wants to lick her pretty nipples and make them perk up under the roughness of his tongue. “I don’t know if you can be gentle. You haven’t exactly proven it.” 

“I _have_ proven it,” he manages to grit out. The first time tonight did count. “Maker, let me touch you, just let me—” He can’t help the groan he releases as she slides her palms over hips. “—j-just—I want to fucking touch you—”

“I know.” The Girl smirks. She steps forwards, gingerly taking his closed fists into her hands. “You can touch me if you want—”

His hands unfist themselves, his fingers unfurling fast as he reaches for her. The Girl pushes his hands away immediately, a smirk still plastered on her face.

“ _But_ ,” she stresses. “ _I_ move your hands, not you.” She says the last part of her sentence louder, not really giving him any choice in the matter.

Then she steps even closer so that her gorgeous tits are right in his face, directly where his eyes naturally meet her body. She’s so close he can smell her, the sweet scent of her sweat, so utterly obscene and sexy—and so completely _her._

Din’s jaw drops, his mouth going dry as he notices her nipples pebbling even further under his stare.

“Fine,” he says. His hands are shaking as she moves them towards her body, his pulse spiking sharply as she places them on her hips. He feels dizzy, like he could faint with the effort it takes. _Don’t squeeze, don’t grab, don’t fucking—wait_ , why is he listening to her again? What was the point of this? _Why were they even doing this?_

As if she can read his mind, the Girl lets go of his hands for a moment, reaching down to tilt his face up to hers. “Show me you can play the game, Din,” she whispers. ‘I mean… I don’t know if you’ll hold out for a week, but at least if you can stay still now—” She pinches his chin, running a thumb over his lips. Playfully, he nips at it, enjoying how her eyes spark. “—if you can stay still now, then we can even consider playing in the first place—”

“ _Please._ Let’s do it,” he groans, wanting so desperately to kiss her when she draws her hand away. His eyes fall back to her lips, then back to those pretty nipples of hers, roaming over her body face like he can’t decide where to leave his focus. It’s taking every inch of his self-control not to flex his fingers against her hips. “Please, I’ll be good—” He shuts his eyes.

“My first time wasn’t any good.” The Girl grabs his hands in hers again. “It lasted about thirty seconds. I wanted it to feel good, but back then I had no idea how to make myself feel good—”

“I can make you feel good.” Din’s panting now, watching her chest rise and fall as she finally moves his roughened palms up to her waist. _How does she reduce him to this, to a panting animal in the dark?_ She’s teasing him, but he realizes she’s also teasing herself; he can see flickers of her faltering resistance on her face and in the way she’s chewing her bottom lip raw. “I can show you how to feel good.”

“Yes. But you have to be gentle,” she reminds him. Her words verge on a moan as she finally brings his limp hands up to cup at her tits. “And you have to take your time.”

“I’ll take my time,” he grits out. “I’ll make it good for you, I promise.”

She drops one of his hand down her torso, dipping his fingers between her legs. “I know you will.” Shamelessly, she bounces her chest in his face. “A good man like you can’t possibly take advantage of an innocent thing like me.”

Din has to actively stop himself from lunging forwards and capturing a nipple in his mouth. His neck and shoulders stiffen with the effort, his brow furrowing. _Focus._ He chooses to look into the Girl’s eyes, taking his energy there. “Yeah?”

“No. I don’t think you would do such a thing.” She whimpers as she feels his finger twitch against her sex. _Maker_ , she’s dripping. At this point it’s a mixture of her and him. 

“Let me touch you,” Din growls. “Let’s play the game tomorrow, but right now, fuck—l-let me touch you—”

“Please,” she whines out.

He leans forward, his tongue lunging out to lick at the treats she’s been dangling in his face for the last fifteen minutes. She moans as his hands grip her to him even tighter, his tongue laving over each of nipples, devouring her like he can’t get enough.

“Come here,” he instructs, leaning backwards. He beckons to her. “On my face.”

“On… your face?” She cocks her head at him, her cheeks flushing prettily when she realizes what he’s asking.

“Sit on my face.”

* * *

Your fingers are tangled in his hair when he makes you cum on his face. Stars burst behind your eyelids, your hands clenching beyond your control. Your brain feels hot and fuzzy.

“ _Mmmm._ ” Din’s muffled moan comes from between your inner thighs. His large hands cradle your ass above his face, keeping you steady as he lies on his back. He tears his mouth away from your cunt, his chest heaving as he watches the last of the aftershocks rack through your body. “Did you like that?” 

“Din—” Your torso twitches. You force your fingers loose from his locks, a shiver running up your spine as he stares at you; he looks positively wild with your juices dripping down his chin. Instead of replying further, you lean down, slipping backwards on your knees so you can kiss him. “We should get back... _Ah_ —” 

You feel him hard against your tummy. His mouth works its magic, this time against your lips. He shakes his head. “Why? I like it here.” 

“I do too.” 

“You can sleep in tomorrow. I can’t.” 

“So we should go.” 

“That’s my choice.” 

“Still—”

He kisses you suddenly. There’s a vulnerability in his action, a plea. “I just want to be with you,” he whispers. “Can we… let’s just…” He pauses. “Just for a while longer.” 

You stare into his eyes, stroking his hair. He waits for you. 

Finally, you sigh. “Okay.” 

He holds you close to him then, your head coming to rest on his chest. You can feel his heart throbbing. You take your time listening to the sound of it, to the hollow echoes and the strange internal workings of him.

This was what lay beneath the armor the entire time: a beating heart, human and impulsive. You lay a kiss on right above it, feeling the way his skin jumps at your affection. 

Din exhales, hugging you tighter. “Just a while longer.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> etchedbox.tumblr.com


	12. The Game (Pt. 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: roleplay of virgin!reader aka the game.

Exhaustion pulls at Din’s body, unfurling him further with each passing hour. It’s kriffing _hot_ at the top of the seeing stone, the blistering heat rising in waves as the sun inches higher in the sky. 

“Kid,” Din croaks out. There are times when Din’s completely thankful for the beskar, for the protection and insulation—today is not one of them. “Kid, are you going to do your Jedi stuff?” 

The tiny green baby on top of the rock blinks.

It’s not just the Mandalorian who’s feeling uncomfortable; the Child is drowsy from the heat, his large black eyes drooping, his green eyelids dipping on occasion as he struggles to stay awake. _Same here, Kid._ After spending all night at the lake with the Girl yesterday, Din is positively exhausted. 

“Dank farrik. Alright,” Din finally sighs. He puts a hand on his hip, watching his son. “We’ll call it in early today.” _Again._

The change is immediate. The Child perks up at this suggestion, his large ears twitching as he releases an enthusiastic coo. 

“Grogu.” Din groans. He _knew_ it. “Kid.” Din measures his next words carefully, knowing how important they are. “I’m starting to think you’re pulling one over on us. This… This is the right place, isn’t it? The one the nice lady told us about. I mean… there _are_ a lot of rocks on this planet.”

Din surveys the boulder-filled landscape that stretches out below them. There were _definitely_ a lot of rocks on Tython, but this was the most… Jedi-looking rock. It was so high up it felt automatically purposeful and there were _symbols_ —kriffing _symbols_ —and tilted slabs of rock pointing towards the center. If that wasn’t a huge sign in itself, Din didn’t know what else would be.

The Child shies away from answering the question, turning his face from his father. 

“Grogu,” Din says sternly, pointing a gloved finger. 

The Child babbles and looks up coyly. 

“Grogu, I know you can do it,” Din states, calming his tone. The beskar armor is absolutely baking him at this point, but he knows that the Kid is scared. _Patience._ That’s what the Girl had stressed at the lake. _Give Grogu time._ Patience wasn’t exactly Din’s strong suit—especially during any of the past examples that jump to mind—but for his son he could try.

“I know you’re scared.” Din crouches so that he’s eye-level to the Kid wrinkled brow. “I know you don’t want to leave.” 

Grogu makes a downtrodden little sound, his big black eyes drooping heavily with sadness this time. 

“But I can’t train you, buddy,” Din admits. His baritone begins to crack as he looks away into the horizon. They both knew it. It was the awful truth, and it had been festering in the pit of Din’s stomach since their arrival on Tython: if Din didn’t know anything about the Jedi, the Child would never be truly safe with him. “You’re… You’re too powerful.”

They stay in silence for a few long minutes. 

The baby stretches a small three-fingered hand out, straining his miniature frame forwards with a high-pitched groan, reaching for the beskar helmet. Din leans forward, allowing the Kid to press his claw firmly to the dark glass of the visor.

That’s all it takes for Din to know what the Kid is asking for, and after last night Din is ready to give it to him. For a few breathless moments, the Child’s eyes don’t wander from the T-visor; and considering that the Child _is_ a baby with an attention span as tiny as his body, the focus is impressive. Grogu’s gaze never wavers from Din’s own, even for a mere second. They’re connected.

Only one barrier remains, artificial and unyielding. 

Din reaches up, tucking a gloved thumb under the crook of his helmet and lifting slowly. The hydraulic hiss echoes out, bouncing around the circle of carved stones. 

_Kriff_ it’s bright. Without the various automatic sensors in his helmet, the sunlight floods unfiltered into Din’s eyes for the first time in forever, blinding him momentarily. He blinks, rapidly shedding a few surprising tears from his watery eyes. The Child’s own eyes narrow, almost like he’s _upset,_ or _concerned_ —

“It’s okay. It’s just bright. I’m not hurt,” Din reassures. He dabs at his eyes with the back of his hand. “It’s just… different, that’s all.” The Child balances on the rock precariously, and Din props the baby up just in time. The Mandalorian holds Grogu in his arms, struggling to keep it together.

“And different… different doesn’t mean bad all the time,” Din murmurs. _Even if we’re apart._

Father and son stare at each other for a very long while, letting the gravity of the moment sink in. Grogu has seen mere glimpses of Din: his father’s chin when he drinks soup, his hands—but never like this. 

“You take all the time you need.” Din’s voice sounds softer without the modulator. The Child seems to like it; he’s responding well to the encouragement. Din nods gently. “Grogu.” 

There’s… love in the Child’s eyes. The Mandalorian’s always known that to some extent, but without the helmet—without the metal weighing him down—the intensity of the Child’s emotions hits Din more acutely. How is it that this tiny being, so powerful and mysterious, could feel so strongly about an adopted father? Their bond is so organic and pure that nothing in this universe could unmake it. Din has seen that same adoration in another’s eyes now; and for the first time since his parents were taken from him, Din recognizes it—accepts it. There are things in this universe more sacred than weapons.

“Me and the pretty girl have talked. Take all the time you need. We don’t have to come back here tomorrow or the next day. And when you’re ready… you let me know.” 

In wonderment, the Child presses his hand to Din’s bare cheek. Din’s eyelids fall shut, unbelievably heavy, and for a few seconds the Mandalorian is overcome by it all. All these soft things—all of the sudden having appeared in Din’s life like magic—like some kind of sorcery. He doesn’t know where they’ve both come from, but he doesn’t want to fight it. He doesn’t question it. There must be a reason. Time will tell.

“Let’s go then,” Din says, sliding his helmet back on. “She’ll be waiting.” 

* * *

Doma gifted you some clothes. They’re flimsy little items, a strappy white shirt (no more than a wrapping, really) and a skirt so short that you would never be caught dead in it normally. They certainly weren’t clothes made for work, but you weren’t planning on fixing up the Crest today. It was too kriffing hot and even you weren’t that much of a sucker for punishment. So… you let Doma corner you first thing in the morning, allowing her to practically force you into the clothes that she had sewn.

“Yes,” the old woman approves, motioning for you to do another spin for her. “Yes, that’ll do.” 

This village was decidedly not conservative, even though you recall telling Din that. _How wrong you had been._ You struggle to remember why you thought so in the first place. Maybe it was the silky mist, rolling heavy over the hills at dawn; maybe it was the deafening silence of the valley where all echoes were swallowed.

By your second day staying here, however, you already gathered that your first impression was grossly misleading. It was all a facade. When you heard the local girls gossiping about the lake, you discovered that every settlement in this galaxy shared certain similarities—from Coruscant to Nevarro, from Hoth to Tython. Sure, one always had to account for culture, but people were driven by the same essential things.

Ironically, you wonder that if you had told Doma from the start that Din and you were together… would it have mattered? You doubt it. Perhaps the two of you would even be sleeping in the same bed. Better to err on the side of caution though. And then again, you wouldn’t be having so much playing this game. 

“Isn’t this a little immodest?” At the edges of your mind, you register that Din might like it. You hate to admit it, but it’s girlish enough to feel foreign, to make you feel like… like _who you were supposed to be_ for the entirety of this week. Like some naive girl who didn’t know the Mandalorian. 

“This is what we wear around these parts during this time of year.” Doma crosses her arms, and you hope you haven’t offended her. “I think of the designs myself,” she tells you proudly. It’s laughable that this adorable old lady is responsible for something that you and your parents on Alderaan would have deemed scandalous, but with a new village came a new way of life. “Of course, you shall wear your cloak at first since it’s always chilly in the night, but it’s so hot now that you can easily shrug it off… and no one would think less of you for it.” 

“Of course,” you reply dryly. _Of course she’s thought of everything._ Over the past week you’ve developed a keen fondness for Doma and her meddlesome ways. “Do you have a daughter?” You ask out of curiosity more than anything.

“No.” Doma beckons for you to sit down beside her at the dining table. You feel slightly ridiculous, but you don’t mind humoring the older woman; it’s the least you can do after all her generosity. “Just my son. But within a small village like this, you do what you can to keep yourself amused at my age. The last pair I set up was three months ago.” 

“…The last… pair?” You rest your elbows on the table. The wood is smooth, worn down and sanded over years of use.

“The last match.” Doma sips from her hot brew, a herbal drink she concocts fresh every morning with great care. “Now, there is a good one—Vero is his name—and his family’s in charge of all the carpentry around here—” 

“Doma,” you giggle, pressing your hand into the old woman’s elbow. “You can’t be serious.” 

‘Oh my girl, I am very serious,” Doma laughs back, patting your hand. “Not to worry. You shall not waste your youth and beauty around me.” 

“Doma!”

“As the village elder, I take my responsibilities very seriously. How dare you suggest otherwise.” Doma offers you a steaming mug of her herbal brew, gesturing frantically for you to take a sip. “Now this Vero is very handsome. A bit older, almost thirty.”

 _Not as old as Din_ , you think. Well… if you’re going to humor her, then you must as well do it all the way. It’s not like you’re serious anyways. Despite yourself, your heart quickens when you think about Din, about his face last night, about his lips, his _eyes_ —okay, _stop_. “And how do you intend to get me and this Vero in the same place?”

“Easy,” Doma replies smugly. “Today is the last day of the week. And on every last day, the villages serves communal lunch by the bank of the river. It’s a bit of a walk but entirely worth it.”

You pause. “Doma. You knew I wasn’t going to work on the ship today,” you accuse her. 

“Of course,” she chuckles. “It’s simply too hot.” 

* * *

The village is a complete ghost town when Din arrives back with the Child. The Girl is not waiting.

“Hello?”

No one answers; no one is there to.

At first Din is afraid that something terrible has taken place, but it’s entirely too peaceful for that possibility. Everything is left untouched—tools laid neatly, fires extinguished carefully—like life had simply paused, daring to trickle to a stop for a few chance hours. The lines of every surface bend in the midday heat as Din wanders from empty hut to empty hut, using the sensor embedded in his beskar helmet to search for any life forms. Like he initially suspected, there’s not a living thing in sight.

“I’m not sure,” Din says in reply to the Child’s confused gargle. He strokes the Kid’s fuzzy head, letting the little thing slump further into the bend of his thick arm.

Then Din hears it. The faint tinkle of raucous laughter and cheers in the distance, audible only because of a random echo. Reaching up to flick a few switches on side of his helmet, he hones in on the sounds coming from the North. 

“Sounds like they’re all at the foot of the second hill,” Din drawls out to no one in particular. “By the river. I guess we’ll wait for them to come back—” Grogu interrupts his father with a loud, high-pitched, squeal, raising his green arms above his head. Din looks down. “What?”

The Child makes another noise. 

_Children,_ Din realizes. _Other_ children. A pang of guilt violently lashes through him and he groans, feeling the exhaustion seep further into his body, into his bones. The Girl certainly wore him out last night (though he harbored no regrets) and Din wasn’t as young as he used to be. The only thing that stops him from refusing the Child is the memory of what life was like on Sorgan, when the Child frolicked with other children. 

“You want us to go,” Din huffs out. 

The Child coos in agreement, blinking. 

“Fine.” Din finds the floating crib and places Grogu gingerly inside. “But we’re not staying for long.”

 _Kriff,_ it’s still so hot.

It takes longer than expected to reach the river that slices through the valley; this side of Tython is covered with small bodies of water, but this right here, by the river, is the main gathering place—the source of all life for the village. Almost everyone—faces Din’s grown familiar with in the past week— is gathered around the sunniest section of the riverbank, eating and drinking in general merriment. The celebration is drastically different from what Din’s accustomed to, too light and not weapons-based enough for a Mandalorian, but that’s not why he’s nervous.

Truthfully, Din’s unprepared to face the Girl. They had parted last night at the lake with the agreement that they would pass their next week apart by playing this game—and that Din would be playing by her rules. _What were the rules again?_ He hears her whispers, feels her warm breath ghosting over his bare cheeks: _“So… maybe we can pretend. Like… you’re the Mandalorian, and I live in this village, and I haven’t met you before, and I haven’t ever done— I haven’t done anything in my life—”_

 _Fuck._ He spots her under a tree, sitting on a blanket laid on the grass. She’s still wearing a cloak despite the toiling heat, but her legs are folded beneath her, the edges of her bare soles peeking out onto the dirt.

“Child!” Both Din and Grogu turn when they hear Doma’s voice calling out. “Child! Over here.”

To Din, the Kid is the Child, but to Doma, Din is a child. Reluctantly, the bounty hunter turns away from the Girl, but not before she catches sight of him too. He’s never been subtle with entrances; not unless your name is Mayfield and Din is stalking you down the hallway of a New Republic prison hauler.

“Won’t you eat with us?” Unbothered by the intimidating posture of the warrior, Doma places a hand on Din’s vambrace. He shifts her hand away from the several buttons she’s almost just pressed—that would have been bad.

“My cree—” Din stops himself from giving his usual answer. “No, I will not join you today.” 

“That’s a shame. Come sit, child.” When the Mandalorian gives no sign of moving, Doma sighs. “Come now.” 

Din finally relents, lowering himself onto the tree stump adjacent to the old woman. From this angle he can clearly see the Girl. He watches as she tugs at the strings of her cloak, moving it off her bare shoulders. _What is she wearing?_ He’s not nearly close enough to get a proper look.

“How was the stone?” 

It takes a moment for Din to register that Doma’s asking him a question. “It was uneventful,” Din replies. “We’ll take a break. At least for a few days.”

“Stubborn thing.” Doma faces the Child in the open crib. 

“Look!” A small voice suddenly cries out. “Look, it’s him!” A bare-footed young boy with sandy hair runs directly up to the opening of the crib, pointing a finger at Grogu, who hovers in the air and stares back. It’s not long before a small hoard of children join in, flocking around the bassinet to stare at the Child. The Kid soaks it up, clearly enjoying the new attention.

“Be careful,” Din growls at the children crowding around. “Hey, watch it—” 

“It’s okay.” 

Din’s head snaps up. The Girl is there, having sneaked up to stand right beside his elbow.

“Here.” She plucks Grogu from the crib and tenderly hands him to one of the older children. _What is the Girl wearing?_ Din gapes; the thin straps of the shirt do little to cover the Girl’s shoulders. It’s just like her dress on Coruscant, but there’s something infinitely more simple about what she’s wearing right now—the low cut of it is so plain that it doesn’t distract from her beauty in the least. In fact, it accentuates it, revealing Din’s favorite little freckle on the plump curve of her right breast. “Take care of him,” the Girl murmurs sternly to the group of children. They run off, howling with glee at the prospect of finally playing with the Kid. Din barely notices. 

Him and the Girl stand awkwardly side by side, unsure of how to proceed. _Do they…_ _what do they do now?_ Din swears that if he looks close enough, her shirt is sheer enough that he can see the outline—

A deep voice calls the Girl’s name, but it’s not his. Din glances over to see a tall man sitting on the blanket underneath the tree. The man motions towards the Girl. To Din’s surprise, she turns and calls out: “I’m coming!” And then she turns and walks away, leaving Din without saying a word. He watches her leave, his eyes shamelessly dropping to the backs of her exposed legs, noticing the sway of her hips. 

_Who was he?_ Din glowers at the man beneath the tree before he feels a faint pat on his vambrace.

“Child,” Doma says. “Did you hear what I said?” 

“Yes,” Din lies. He turns back to Doma, his head spinning with all the commotion, still trying to process the sheer amount of human interaction that’s been compressed into this minute. After years spent in near solitude, it’s alot. He begins to feel a tell-tale ache at his temples.

Everything starts to happen at once. Din is looking at Doma, his thoughts remaining on the Girl and this mysterious tall man. Doma is speaking. To the side, the Girl is now laughing at some (certainly awful) joke the man is telling her. Din hates it, hates how his resentment and jealousy threaten to simmer over in the heat of the day. And through it all, Din somehow hears the Child crying. The sound of it is not loud—in fact it’s so quiet that Din almost misses it entirely between everything else. A jolt of adrenaline bolts through his veins, every battle instinct tearing through the Mandalorian’s body as he stands, his eyes searching frantically for his son—

The Girl is already running towards the commotion—sprinting fast towards the edge of the river where the village children were playing. She’s cradling the sobbing Child, her face pointed defiantly toward the sandy-haired boy. The boy gestures frantically, trying to explain his actions. 

“I-I thought i-it would be f-funny—“ The boy stutters, his face coloring.

“You thought it would be _funny_?” The Girl hisses through gritted teeth. “How is this _funny_?”

“What’s happened?” Din approaches swiftly, looking around at the other children for some explanation. 

“Vale took Grogu’s ball,” another boy tells Din. “And then Grogu tried to get it back with his magic, but then he couldn’t—”

“You _what_?” It’s Din’s turn to look at the cowering boy— _Vale_ —whose remorse is entirely apparent. “Give it back.” Din towers over Vale, holding out a gloved hand. “ _Now._ ”

“I-I’m sorry!” Vale shakes, dropping the metal ball into Din’s palm. “I’m so sorry, please don’t—d-don’t—I swear—I didn’t—please d-don’t k-ki—m-me— _please_.” 

With his last plea, Vale bursts into tears. Hot streaks of salty water stream fast down his red cheeks as he opens his mouth and wails, his cries mingling with Grogu’s; the baby looks surprised at this outcome, his own sounds dying into tiny hiccups when the Girl presses a kiss to his wrinkly forehead.

Din sighs. He’s a _Mandalorian._ Here he stands, a warrior in full beskar armor. The mere sight of him makes grown men on the Outer Rim quiver. To this boy the expressionless helm tilted down from a great, exaggerated, height is surely the most terrifying thing he’s ever seen. Din sighs again, lowering himself, placing one knee on the damp riverbank so that he’s only slightly taller than the sobbing child. It occurs to the Mandalorian that’s it’s the second time today that he’s done something like this. _When did his life become dictated by the emotions of children?_ Ever so slowly, making it woefully clear to the bawling boy that Din doesn’t want to hurt him, the Mandalorian places a gloved hand gently on top of the little one’s head.

_Patience._

“You’re okay,” Din grunts, patting softly and ruffling the boy’s hair; because the boy can’t see his face, Din puts in a concerted effort to soften his voice. “You didn’t mean it. Hey, we know you didn’t mean it. I’m sure you’re a good kid. And I’m sure you didn’t mean it. You’re okay—” He keeps reassuring Vale until the boy’s cries finally quieten.

“I-I d-didn’t,” Vale stutters, wiping away the messiness from his cheeks. “I-I r-really d-didn’t.” He’s hiccuping now, just like Grogu. Every hiccup shakes the baby’s body; he jolts in the Girl’s arms every time.

“Why don’t you apologize to Grogu?” The suggestion is unnatural to Din, but he’s running on pure instinct.

“I-I’m sorry Grogu,” Vale mumbles, casting his eyes downwards and shuffling from foot to foot. “How can I make it up to you?”

Grogu, who has already stopped crying (or hiccuping) in the Girl’s arms, gurgles, reaching for Vale. _If only all of life was that simple,_ Din thinks. There’s a beauty to it, a wonderful simplicity.

“Here.” Din places the ball back into Vale’s much smaller hand. “He wants you to play with him. But play _nice_ , alright?” 

“Alright.” Vale nods as the Girl places Grogu down on the riverbank. The moment the Kid’s feet meet the ground he’s running; before Din can get in another word of warning, the two children are already dashing off into the distance. There are probably frogs along the river for the Kid to devour in one gulp.

The Mandalorian is still on one knee. The Girl is standing in front of him, only daring to shoot him a quick, demure, look—her cheeks are flushed prettily from the heat. She ducks her gaze from his helmet, and the quick motion of her head causes one thin strap to fall down the curve her shoulder. Before Din can fully appreciate the sight, she’s already readjusting, snapping it back into place hastily. 

She seems… shy.

“You’re hurt.” Din points to her bare foot. It’s dipped inside the shallowest part of the river. Above it, a small plume of red drifts upwards.

The Girl looks down. “Oh.” She lifts her foot up. Sure enough, there’s a tiny cut—nothing really—on the sole of her left foot. “I didn’t notice. It must have been from when I sprinted.”

“Let me help you.” Din stands, barely giving the Girl a moment’s warning before he easily lifts her up, carrying her in his arms. With the helmet on it gives him a discreet view of her face up close, of her neck; he fixates on a bead of sweat running down the smooth dip of her throat, finding it’s way right down the neckline of her shirt.

“D-Di—” In her surprise, the Girl manages to stop herself from saying his name. In a short second her expression neutralizes. She rests her hand on his beskar pauldron, steadying herself within his hold. She bats her lashes at him. “What’s your name?” 

Underneath his helmet, Din smirks. 

_And so the game officially begins._

* * *

“Hey Din, Doma needs your help.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“Is that… Is that a blaster?”

“Yes.”

“Wow. I’ve never seen one like that before.”

“No?” You can hear his smile even though you can’t see his face. You’re both having fun with this. Sometimes the game is sexy and other times it’s comical, a shared joke between the two of you. _A secret._ “You wouldn’t have. It was made for me.”

“Are you… cleaning it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

A pause.

“Din, what’s the coolest planet you’ve ever been to?”

“… Nevarro.”

_“Din.”_

“I met some people important to me there.”

“ _Din_ —”

“The Kid. Greef Karga.”

You wait. Insolent man.

“Can’t seem to remember who else I’ve met there. Have you ever been?”

“No.” You frown. “But Doma needs your help.”

“Be right there.”

* * *

By the third day, you want Din so badly that you’re tempted to touch yourself for some relief. But you refrain, knowing full well that it wouldn’t be fair according to the dictation of your very own rules. Your active determination doesn’t achieve much—it just serves to make you even more frustrated. You’re frustrated at everything; you’re frustrated Din’s sudden show of discipline; you’re frustrated that you don’t know how he is, and you wonder how he quells his desire; even the low buzz of insects frustrates you an inordinate amount. This amount of discipline Din possesses is unnatural, and he’s only revealed it in specific moments previous to this week. The biggest show of his discipline was his devotion to his creed. Even that was broken.

Yet the man could barely stop himself from touching you after taking you four times by the lake; now it’s been three whole days and he’s barely given you the crumbs of his attention. No matter what you did, no matter how you flounced around and stared at him, he wasn’t giving in. You’re so incredibly needy and desperate, watching for any single sign that he might just cave. 

By the fourth night, you can’t focus. Your tinkering on the Razor Crest has dropped to almost the bare minimum. Progress on the thruster has stalled. You’ve re-attached it fully to the body of the Crest, but it remains only firing at 50% capacity. _You’re better than that,_ you tell yourself. _You can do better than that._

You just… you can’t… you can’t fucking _focus._

“Do you need more help with it?” Tonight Din is helping Doma readjust her fireplace, and the grunts he gives as he works don’t help your situation. Somehow in the past few days you’ve both settled on a half-fabricated backstory: he’s a Mandalorian bounty hunter hiding out on Tython with his wrinkly green son, earning his keep by remaining useful around the village.

Every day that passes you have the same casual conversations _. How are you? Did you sleep well? I slept well._ Unsaid: I dreamt of you _._ It’s flirting. The nature of the game pushes you, driving you to the brink of insanity. It’s like he’s a complete mystery once again, like you don’t know him anymore. It’s refreshing but it’s also alienating— _lonely._ You want to ask if he thinks of you too—if he misses you—but you can’t. Not yet at least.

The boom of his baritone brings you back to Doma’s hut. “Or does that need more work?” He’s not talking to you.

“It works.” Doma pats Din’s shoulder affectionately. “Now you should get some sleep.” 

_Maker, you miss his face._ You’ve gone for so long without seeing it at all that in theory you shouldn’t, but you do. You miss the way he looks at you, his brown eyes mercurial and shifting in the moonlight. You dream of him looking at you; every night in your slumber the moments stolen from the lake appear to you in the quality of a never-ending memory.

“I will,” Din replies. The beskar helmet turns to you then Doma. He gives a curt, faceless, nod. “Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight child,” Doma says.

“Goodnight Din,” you echo, trying not to sound too breathless. You catch the way his helmet jerks back to you for just a milisecond. Din’s been teasing you in his own way, but he’s being far more subtle than he was in Tatooine. No long looks, no quips, no _touches._ In fact he doesn’t touch you at all without your permission—not ever—but that only serves to make you ache for him even more.

It’s like you’re back outside the fresher on the Razor Crest, sleepily confessing your feelings within the hum of hyperspace. But this time the longing seems worse, compounded by all that you already know about him. You’ve had to abandon all that you’ve discovered and excavated in these past months, working your way to the center of him.

Din fills the doorway of the hut, all big and shiny. Before the fabric that covers the doorframe falls back, you catch a glimpse of him sauntering off into the night. 

“He took his helmet off in front of me today,” Doma chimes in, interrupting your sullen thoughts. “Have you ever seen his face?”

 _Yes._ “No.”

You’ve noticed that he’s gradually become more comfortable with taking his helmet off in front of others. There was even talk among the village about his looks. 

_“Have you ever thought about it?” One of the women had asked you._

_“No.”_

_“I would,” the woman retorted. “Why not when he looks like that.”_

_The group of women burst into laughter, and your blood sparked—_

“It was unexpected.” Doma’s pensive voice, creaky with age, brings you back to the hut. It seems that your mind wanders at every opportunity these days, drifting to Din and the stars. “Very. He’s a handsome man, that Mandalorian.” 

You agree, but— “In…” You’re taken aback. “Why did take his helmet off?” 

“He was helping with the timber again, so we had lunch together.” Doma shrugs as if this was just the natural progression of things, like there was no other possible outcome. “You were off working on the ship. But he did say he would be back tomorrow.” Doma eyes you suspiciously. “For lunch,” she specifies. 

_Fuck_ , are you _blushing? Don’t be obvious… He’s not even here._ “Oh.” 

The next morning you give yourself a plethora of excuses not to go back to the Crest, busying yourself with a long list of Doma’s chores. Thankfully it also happens to be especially warm—that happens every other day on Tython—so it’s an easy sell that you’re skipping repairs for the day. You can tell the old woman is still suspicious, but luckily her remarks from last night seem to be the extent of her prying. You even humor her again, keeping her happy by wearing another dress she’s gifted you. It’s similarly strappy to everything else she’s sewn, and similarly short. As the day boils on, you’re grateful for the relief it gives you.

“I’ll need to step out for a meeting with the farmers this afternoon.” Doma sips her home-brewed concoction. You expect her to say more, but only silence follows.

“Okay,” you say. Your shoulders tense as you realize that you and Din will be completely alone for the first time in almost a week. You drink from your own mug. You don’t think Doma knows, but you can’t be sure.

Din comes for lunch, just like Doma said he would. He fills the doorway again, and your heart shivers with how he waits, asking with his silence for permission to enter. He’s always been courteous; it’s one of the things you admire most about him. Doma is pottering around the stove, tasting the stew from a bubbling pot with an earnest concentration.

“Come in,” you finally say. You’re setting the table and you feel him stir the air behind you as he moves into the small hut, hovering uneasily.

“Can I help with anything?”

“You’re fine,” you quickly add. “You’re a guest, so just sit.” You turn your back, reaching up into Doma’s high cabinet for her nice glasses.

Din shuffles behind you, and you hear the quiet drag of a chair’s legs as he sits. Your heartbeat has slowed to a constant throb, painful and swollen in your chest.

Right then, you hear a hiss. Him removing his helmet, the sound so metallic and unfitting in this homely environment, so loud it fills the entire room. You’re on your toes and you struggle to keep yourself moving, trying not to freeze in pure excitement. 

“Handsome,” Doma says smugly. Out of the corner of your eye you can see her resting her back against the counter, admiring him.

_Thanks, Doma._

Din clears his throat. “Thank you.” 

His voice is deeper, so _warm_ without with the modulator. How did you forget? You clench your eyes shut, remembering him whispering in your ear, telling you how fucking good you feel, how tight you are around his cock—

You shake your head, freeing yourself from these treacherous thoughts. “Here.” You spin around, willing your hands not to shake as you set two glasses down onto the smooth surface right in front of him. A rush of recklessness surges across your skin as you meet his eyes for a fraction of a second. Without hesitation you spin around again, standing up on your tiptoes to reach for the third glass on the very top shelf.

 _Oh…_ you’ve been teasing him too. You can practically feel his gaze on your ass.

To your delight, there’s still a flicker of lust in Din’s eyes when you set the third glass on the table. He looks… hungry, like a wild animal that’s only pretending to be tamed, to be constrained. His dark eyes roam across your face and body, darting around quickly but not necessarily discreetly. He’s less subtle with the helmet off; it’s an improvement from the night at the lake, but he’s by no means the master of his expressions yet. You think that he’s probably been ogling you this entire time and you could never tell. The helmet always presented an unfair advantage. He’s been so exceptionally good this week.

Din pushes the long brown fringe out of his eyes, and just like that, the flicker is gone. He smiles politely at you. “Thank you.” _So fucking polite._

“Here.” Doma hobbles over and slides a bowl of stew towards Din. “Same as yesterday. You seemed to like it.”

“It was excellent,” Din confirms. He doesn’t look at you even when Doma sits at the head of the table. He angles his body towards her, intentionally giving the old woman his full attention. “Did you need me to move the timber today?” 

“Later.” Doma waves him off with a flick of her wrist.

Din starts pulling off his gloves, still focusing on Doma the entire time. You try not to stare. _Don’t_ stare. _Don’t_ look at his hands.

You shoot Doma a puzzled look. “Aren’t you eating?” 

She shakes her head. “I’ll be leaving. For that meeting I told you about.” 

“So soon?” Honestly, you’re not even surprised. 

“My old bones need time to get from place to place,” Doma adds. “Din. This girl here needs help with your ship. She’s been working hard at it for almost two weeks now! I hope you’re paying her well.” 

“I am.” His eyes roam back to you for a moment.

 _“Hmm.”_ You make the both of them wait on your reply as you sip at the stew. “I for one think I could be compensated better.” 

Doma laughs at this, but Din’s reaction is more restrained. His mouth twitches into a smile. “Is that so?” 

You want to kiss him. The desire makes you sassy, makes you run your mouth when you know you shouldn’t. “You’re kind of cheap with the wages actually.” You shoot him a quick little wink—barely perceptible even to him. He visibly tenses, gripping his spoon tightly. _Good._

_You’re going to push him until he breaks._

Doma’s still laughing. “Din,” she scolds. “Make sure to pay this young lady her worth.” 

Din takes a drink of water, gulping. “I’ll be sure to make the appropriate adjustments.” He says this completely matter-of-factly, like he’s reading coordinates for you to punch in. “And take your concerns into the fold.” He lifts his spoon, sipping his stew. 

“Thank you,” you reply. He’s holding your gaze as you bring your own spoon up to your mouth—

—he swallows. “Delicious.” He licks his lip slowly. Then, deliberately, while he’s still making eye contact with you, he places his thumb between his lips and sucks. 

And just like that, you blush. The fucking _audacity_ … _Fuck._ Images of him between your legs, pinning you to the ground beside the lake—his tongue dipping into your wet folds—all of it rushes through your mind within a span of a few seconds. Your eyes immediately drop to his lips, and you know he notices from the way his mouth curls into a smile. _Son of a mudscuffer._ You’re already _wet_. You feel faint, hazy, like his one simple action has sucked all oxygen from the atmosphere, like all that exists is his smart, taunting, mouth. You _can_ focus. Just on the wrong things.

“I’ll make it again for you tomorrow.” You barely hear the scrape of Doma’s chair against the floor of the hut, and there’s a lag in how your eyes jump up to her. 

“Would you like me to walk you there?” Din is looking at her too. 

“No, silly child.” Doma rolls her eyes. “Finish your lunch. Where is your son?”

“With the other children.” 

“Good,” Doma says. “Then all is well. See you soon.” 

Because she’s old, everything takes longer.

Time drags to a standstill as you sit, sipping at your soup, avoiding Din’s eyes pointedly as Doma hobbles through the doorframe, pushing the heavy tapestry aside. The sunlight streams through the doorway for a few seconds, the brightness of it almost blinding and striking Din right across the face. He nearly flinches but stops short of it. You glance up at him, noticing the way the speckles in his brown eyes spark in the new light as he stares back at you. You’ve only seen him at night, you realize. Bathed in the rays of the sun, his skin is luminous, a soft shade of honey.

He sips at his spoon as the fabric falls back into place, casting his face into shadow. In comparison to seconds ago, you can’t read his eyes. 

Your water glass is empty. 

Your throat is dry, constricting the tension that fills the space, strangling the both of you, slowing you until you’re essentially static. He keeps looking at you.

“You’re staring,” you tell him.

“ _Hmm_.”

You want to think of some brilliant response. You do, but you can’t.

Instead, you avert your eyes. “I’ll get some—“ You don’t finish your sentence on the first try. “I’ll get some water.”

You stand suddenly, pushing your chair out and grabbing the glass, turning your back to him, your hands shaking uncontrollably as you find the handle of the tap. You turn it slowly, watching as the water fills your glass. The rush of liquid hitting the side almost drowns out the short scrape of Din’s chair. It almost obscures the sound of his slow, steady, heavy, footsteps as he walks up behind you. 

You turn off the tap. 

Din waits. He’s inches away from your back.

You shut your eyes. You can feel the heat emanating off his body even through the beskar. He waits, weighing what to do next. Maybe you’ve both been too good at playing this game. Maybe you should turn to him and tell him you’ve had enough.

Din steps forward. You feel the press of his chestplaste against your spine, chilly but encompassing. He keeps his hips away from yours in a small sign of respect. It’s not rough, not urgent like it usually is. It makes you feel safe.

Your eyes are still closed. You feel him tug the glass out of your hand, listening for when he sets it carefully down on the counter. Your heart jumps, thumping erratically as he reaches up and moves your hair to one side.

“I can smell you.” He blows hot air across your skin, but somehow this makes you shiver, makes the goosebumps pebble fast across your arms. “I can smell how wet you are right now.”

He inhales—exhales—and you feel the wide bridge of his nose press softly against the back of your neck… he tilts his head, brushing his lips across the side throat. Your mind spins, your own head rolling back to rest against his strong shoulder. _You missed this._ Rough fingertips ghost across the back of your bare thighs, skimming around until they reach the front of your legs, barely playing with your hemline. His touch almost disappears; he’s still teasing. He pinches the fabric of the skirt between two fingers, tugging gently. 

The small but sharp friction of the fabric against your nipples is enough to set you off. You need something— _anything_.

“I-I’ve never done this before,” you gasp out.

“No?” His voice is even deeper than usual. His fingertips flex on your bare thighs, almost daring to edge under your skirt. You can feel his discipline, his _restraint_. 

“No,” you make sure to say. “Never.” 

_“Fuck,”_ he mouths against your neck. The pressure of his mouth is dizzying.

“I think about you all the time. And I don’t know what to do about it.” 

“ _Stop talking,”_ he warns.

“Please, Din,” you plead. “I know you’ll make me feel good. Please make me feel good.” 

He spins you by the hips suddenly, caging you against the counter with his broad body, and you think you’ve finally broken him. _Victory._ He leans down and kisses you, dipping his tongue into your mouth with his typical rough intensity—

—but then he stops, drawing back abruptly. 

“I…” He studies your face, and you can see the crash of conflict in his brown eyes. You want to tell him not to worry, to reassure him that he’s not actually doing anything wrong— _it’s just a fucking game_. “… I… I can’t.” His hands leave your hips, gripping the counter on either side of your waist tightly. “Not like this.”

“Din.” You try to stop him but he’s already moving away, fetching his gloves and his helmet from the table. He doesn’t even bother to put the thing on. He doesn’t look at you. He just tucks the helmet under his arm and moves towards the doorway, pushing the heavy fabric aside as he steps into the sunlight—

Is he serious? _He’s just going to leave you here?_ Your panties are a _mess._ _Fuck him_ , you decide. _Fuck_ his self-restraint, his stupid discipline, the years of devout longing that he’s suppressed too well.

The wheels in your mind turn: your bedroom has a single window that looks out straight into the path Din would be taking away from the cabin. Your frustration turns to anger as you storm into the room, sliding the panties off your legs and yanking the curtain from the open window. 

Luckily, there’s no one else around but him. Perks of a small village, you suppose. He’s not that far away yet. 

“Din,” you yell out. 

He freezes. 

“Just one second,” you say. “I’ll let you go, I promise.” 

His shoulders stiffen. He turns back, unsure of what you’re doing.

“I need to go to the Crest anyways.” You know you’re technically breaking the rules with that statement, but you don’t care. 

“What?” The frustration in his voice is apparent too, in the way he’s gritting his jaw. He nears your window but stays at what he deems a safe distance. 

He’s still close enough that you see all of his surprise when your panties hit him squarely in his chestplate, sliding downwards. He catches them. 

And for the first time since you’ve met him, you see Din truly surprised, truly shocked—completely astounded—as he stares at the soaked pair of panties in his hand. 

“See you.” He begins to step forwards, but you shut the curtain in his face. It’s your turn to smirk. You like it when his mouth hangs open. 

_Serves him right._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> etchedbox.tumblr.com


	13. The Game (Pt. 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: smut! Roleplay Virgin!Reader aka the Game.

“Girl.”

You're sweeping a long-forgotten corner of the hut when Doma calls for you. Watching dirt and dust swirl beneath the crude bristles, you pause long enough to look up.

“Don't you feel it?” The old woman is still like a statue. She grips the wooden table. “A disturbance.”

 _A... disturbance?_ Doma shuts her eyes and on instinct you follow suit. As strange as it seems, _it's_ there. A disturbance in the atmosphere, a faint and invisible tremor that vibrates through the air. Your eyes flicker open.

_A bloodcurdling scream._

Dropping the broom, you rush outside with Doma trailing after you. You shield your eyes from the late afternoon sun, your heart constricting as the screaming grows more intelligible, forming into words high-pitched and dreadful.

_"The child. Help! Somebody!"_

Your eyes pinpoint the screaming woman—Kyla, a local around your age—pointing a shaking finger into the thick forest that crowds the periphery of the village.

_"Help! The child!"_

The Mandalorian runs out of a nearby hut, clad in full armor and rifle in hand. Relief floods through your veins when you see the egg-shaped crib floating behind the warrior, a green blob tucked safely inside: Grogu.

_“Help!”_

An enormous feline creature corners Vale against the columns of tree trunks.

The small boy quakes, his sobs growing silent as the Cat stalks closer to him, its talons unsheathed. Large paws hit the dirt with heavy, ominous, thuds; hulking muscles ripple underneath brown fur as the Cat advances, now only a mere foot away from the boy. You recognize it: _a Manka Cat._ A _big_ cat. Funnily enough a creature native to Alderaan, fierce and feral in the worst ways when encountered in the wild. An animal which stalks then kills its prey without mercy.

The Cat growls, its body coiling tight as it finally prepares to pounce.

“Over here!”

Picking up a loose branch, you hurl it as hard as you can, hitting the Manka Cat directly on its side. Meeting a solid wall of fur and muscle, the stick falls helplessly to the ground.

“Vale, run!” You wave your arms above your head. “Over here, you mangy—”

The Cat turns to you and _roars._

As if in slow motion, you watch the Manka Cat’s massive jaws snap open wider than your entire head, revealing a set of frighteningly sharp teeth. There’s sheer violence in the sound of its roar, like a wave of compressed air has hit you squarely in the face. For a few slow seconds your body doesn’t have time to react before the Cat is advancing on you instead, springing into a sharp sprint.

 _This is it,_ you think. _I’m done._

A flash of beskar.

You see it right before your eyes, appearing between you and the predator as the Mandalorian knocks you roughly out of the path of the animal. You fall to the side, your hands scrabbling in the dirt for purchase. Din’s rifle soars through the air, skidding past you on the ground.

There is another glint of beskar as the Mandalorian himself is thrown, landing on his back with a loud thud.

“Mando,” you scream. “Mando, watch out!” The Cat is coiling again, preparing to attack.

A low grunt, modulated and weary. Before you can call out again the Mandalorian is standing, crouching into a battle stance and pulling a knife out of his boot. The Cat stops, tensing at the sudden appearance of the weapon, hesitating, its jaw opening into another aggressive snarl.

Creature and warrior circle one another slowly, stepping into a twisted dance. The Cat’s muscles twitch with every passing second, aching to spring into action. Mando fakes a lunge. The cat snarls again. You sit on the ground, your shoulders trembling. Turning back to the trees, you see that Vale has managed to escape, running swiftly to safety among the crowd of villagers that has gathered warily to watch the action.

“Stay back,” you plead from where you sit. “Everyone. Please stay back.” The sound of your raised voice draws the Cat’s eyes back to you. It stares, blinking, targeting your vulnerable position in the dirt.

But the Mandalorian grunts loudly, waving his arms. And that’s all it takes for the Cat’s eyes to flicker back to the bounty hunter. It leans onto its front paws, a low growl emitting from its clenched mouth and rumbling through the air. It’s incensed, eager for the fight. You can’t help the next shiver that racks your body as Mando feigns another lunge and the Cat coils, leaping, finally launching the entire heft of its muscle towards the warrior—

You resist the urge to shut your eyes as Mando is pushed to the ground. Beast and man wrestle, talons clashing with beskar, loud snarls and grunts echoing out across the village. The moment their two bodies collide you’re already crawling towards the rifle, reaching for it and taking it into your hands. You raise it to your eye, just like Din taught you. Through the scope you watch the two battle, each struggling for survival, but there’s too much movement for you to single out the Cat alone, too much margin for error. _You could hit Din._

Then the Cat’s jaw fastens around one of Din’s forearms, the entire span of its mouth surrounding the beskar vambrace, its dagger-like teeth crashing against metal and sinking into flesh. Mando cries out, holding his arm away from his body and pushing the beast back—and quickly, fluidly, without missing a beat, the Mandalorian drops the knife he’s clutching into his other hand and plunges it into the side of the creature’s neck, directly into the its jugular.

There is a tense moment when the Cat stiffens and Din’s shoulders heave, the energy rapidly leaving him. With baited breath, everyone waits.

There is an audible sigh of relief from the villagers when the Cat’s jaw finally loosens around Mando’s arm, its head falling limply to the side. It collapses to the dirt in a messy heap, the dust settling around its limp corpse.

“Mando!” You’re running towards the Mandalorian before you can stop yourself, dropping to your knees beside him. Your heart pounds as you see the fabric around his arm darkening with blood. “Mando, are you—”

“You’re safe,” he breathes out. A gloved hand firmly grabs your jaw, turning your face this way and that; you let him inspect every part of you, your arms and your hands, for any wounds or visible injuries. “And the boy? Vale?”

“Safe.” You clutch at Din’s hand to get him to stop. “Your arm.”

“It’s nothing.” His voice is strained. 

You stare into the visor. “Let me help you.” He hesitates, and there is a short silence as he considers this. “Let me help you,” you repeat. “Please.”

Finally, the helmet tilts down. “Alright.”

* * *

_It doesn’t really hurt that much._ That’s the first thing Din thinks as the spray of bacta meets his skin. The wounds are small despite initial appearances. Unlike other Mandalorians, Din has never been one to boast about his victories, but he knew with certainty that the Cat’s teeth wouldn’t be able to harm him very much. He is bleeding, yes, but the punctures from the Manka Cat’s attack don’t go very deep. The marks are all fairly superficial, barely a scratch in the grand scheme of injuries that Din has acquired over his lifetime as a warrior. He’s no stranger to a bit of pain.

That doesn’t stop the Girl from fussing over him.

Upon sitting him down at Doma’s table, the Girl had removed his helmet. She didn’t ask. It was the first time she had done it for him, urging his hands downwards as he reached for it himself and pushing them back into his lap. And then she had reached towards his visor, her fingers trembling in the air. Din’s heart had jumped, swelling with anxiety as he felt her small fingers curl around the base of his helmet. But he had quelled this fear, pushing it backwards like a beast of its own, wanting nothing more than to give this to her— _to himself_.

He had stared into her bright eyes as she lifted the helmet shakily over the crown of his head, freeing the locks of his fringe and revealing his face. His eyes hadn’t left her face, even as she set the helmet down on the table with a hollow, metallic, thunk. She had pulled off his gloves next, running her fingertips over his bare skin. Din enjoys when the Girl is confident, but seeing her like this—vulnerable and completely open… nothing will ever compare.

 _He could get used to this._ The Girl pulls up a chair, sitting and leaning in closer to gently unlatch his vambrace. She tenderly cleans away the dried blood on his forearm, spraying the bacta gingerly over each puncture mark. A tiny crease appears between her eyebrows as she works. Din wants to tell her not to worry, but he also doesn’t want to tamper with the sudden determination that’s possessed her.

 _Is this what it feels like?_ Din doesn’t remember many details from his life on Aq Vetina with his parents. Most of what visits him from that distant time are memories of the raid, of cold and hard metal droids towering above him, unfeeling and unthinking. He remembers their settlement showered in sparks; the desperation of his parents cries; and most of all, Din remembers the fear that gripped him as he sheltered in the bunker, the doors above him blasting inwards with the force of a great explosion. On most days it’s difficult to remember anything but that.

Once in a while, however, other moments come to him. Fainter memories, but ones that are better— _good._ He remembers being shrouded by a blanket, someone wrapping the bulky material around his shoulders to shield him from the cold. He remembers his father’s embrace, always given with one arm, brief but loving. He recalls the warmth of his mother’s lips on his forehead, the ceiling of their house fading as he drifts to sleep. _Beige._ The walls were beige, Din thinks, like the desert.

Sometimes he can even hear the murmur of his parents’ voices, not filled with panic or terror but with the mundane, the banal—the everyday. Light conversation at dinner. Gossip from the market. Laughter. Silence, comforting like the blanket. The silence: it ebbs at the edge of every good memory, threatening to consume them whole and warning him never to forget.

All of this—the _good_ —floods back to Din in painful color as he watches the Girl spray each of his wounds with bacta, her fingers smoothing carefully over each small mark to ensure she’s covered every bit of his hurt. _Is this what it felt like?_ The will to heal—to protect. Din feels it in his own chest, for the Kid and for her.

The Mandalorian misses the Girl. He aches for her every night. It’s been six days since the start of their game.

Din takes the Girl’s focus on his arm as an opportunity to run his gaze shamelessly over every available patch of her skin. He snatches up each of her features like a thief, drinking up every secret in the low light of Doma’s hut. The skirt the Girl’s wearing today isn’t as short. It sweeps past the bend of her knee, but her shirt… her white shirt is still painfully thin, the neckline square and low but not immodest, the edges of it sitting geometrically against the smooth skin of her chest. The proximity of her—of her scent, of her sweat—encompasses Din, swaying him as he inhales further, his mouth going dry when he thinks of more recent memories… about the depraved things he did with her panties last night, lying in his cabin and biting down hard on a fist to muffle his groans.

“There,” the Girl says. “Done with the bacta.” She unwinds a roll of bandages, taking his arm back into her hands.

Din likes the game—enjoys it— as much torture as it is. They’ve finally settled on something delicious, something that has unintentionally delved deeper into what the nature of their relationship is. Without his helmet the differences between them are more apparent. There aren’t that many, but like the Girl noted by the lake, Din is older than her. By more than a decade easily. The gap isn’t large by most accounts, but it’s enough to be unusual. His age is only more distinct next to the glow of her youth. If he had kept his helmet on, Din wonders, would they have ever talked about this?

He clears his throat. “Do Manka Cats often roam these parts?”

“Well Doma told me—” The Girl catches herself before breaking character. She’s winding the bandage around his arm. “Yes and no. The Cats roam the ridge. They can be tamed, and sometimes they’re even used to guard the camps of fleshraiders who hide in the depths of the valley. But wild Cats never wander this close. We were lucky you were there.”

“ _Hmm.”_ Din reaches up with his spare hand, twirling a loose lock of the Girl’s dark hair around his finger. He toys with it for a few moments before tucking it behind her ear. “Why’s that?”

She bites her lip, doubling down on her efforts to bandage his arm. “So you could save us.” Her body stiffens as he rests his fingers on the sensitive skin at the back of her neck.

Din runs his fingers slowly down her spine, feeling her bare skin, feeling the fabric. He’ll never admit it out loud, but he likes how big his hands look on her body. He watches as her beautiful concentration finally falters, straining under his touch. “What you said yesterday…”

“What about it?” She’s still trying to focus.

“You said you think about me all the time.” Din runs his fingers back up her spine, enjoying how she trembles through the thin material of her shirt. His eyes never leave her face; she’s avoiding his gaze. “Do you think about all the men who pass through your village?”

The Girl blushes furiously at this question, dropping his arm. “No. Of course not.”

Din can’t tell whether he’s dizzy from the heat or from the blood loss… or just with the possibility of having her again, back in his arms and on his cock. “But you think about me?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me more.” Din pulls his hand away, stretching his uninjured arm out on the back of her chair.

The Girl shakes her head, loose wisps of hair falling across flushed cheeks. She looks away from him, baring the side of her elegant neck to his hungry eyes. Flashes run through his mind; he remembers his hand around her throat, cupping her jaw on the cliff of Arvala-7.

“Do you like thinking about me? Tell me the truth,” Din murmurs. His tone grows firmer when she doesn’t respond. “Tell me.”

The Girl doesn’t answer for a while. Din breathes in again, unsure of whether he should reach for her. But then she starts to move. Her back straightens. With her face still turned away from him, the Girl runs the back of her hand lazily across her exposed chest, wiping away the thin layer of sweat. The tiny movement draws his eyes to the slow sweep of her flesh, an ultimate temptation.

He’s practically growling by the time she finally turns back to him, that pretty pink blush still fastened on her cheeks. Her bright eyes are dimmed, glazed over with lust, darting down to Din’s lips… lingering there. She’s as intoxicated as he is. Their raised breaths mingle in the heat, her eyes flickering back to his. 

Din’s eyelids flutter, suddenly heavy. He struggles to look at her, to remain unflinching in the presence of her beauty. Inside him, the dizziness unravels beyond all sense.

“Yes,” the Girl whispers. “Yes, I enjoy thinking about you.”

Din can’t help himself. He leans in, brushing his nose against hers, strangely hesitant. And then he kisses the Girl. 

It’s slow. Painfully slow. Their lips move uncertainly, the quiet sounds of it filling his head. Din is lost in her. His hand reaches up to cradle her jaw, keeping her mouth steady, pressed constantly against his. Their tongues begin to tangle, painfully slow as well, her lips parting to let him in.

Footsteps and the rustle of movement, right outside the tapestry that covers the door to the hut. The two of them immediately spring apart, Din moving his chair away from hers, the wooden legs scraping across the floor.

Doma enters.

“Child, I do hope your arm is alright,” the elderly woman says.

“Y-yes.” Din nods. “The bacta. It was generous.”

“The entire village is grateful. We’ve not had an incident like that in years.” Doma eyes the unfinished bandage.

The Girl hurriedly grabs Din’s arm, fixing her lopsided work. “We’re almost done.”

“Something to eat?” Doma wobbles over to the stove.

“No, not today,” he replies. “Thank you.”

Din won’t make it through another second in this room. The mere idea of it seems laughable, especially with the Girl’s sweet breath still on his lips.

“Shame,” Doma says. “What a shame.”

* * *

“Din.” You say his name just loud enough so that he can hear you. He’s walking down the path outside your window, away from the cabin.

The Mandalorian stops, turning.

“Come back.” You draw the curtain to the side and sit on the edge of your bed. The spare room in Doma’s hut is so tiny that you’ve barely moved away from the window.

Surprisingly, the Mandalorian listens to you. Maybe he’s still in the trance you’ve both fell into. Inside, you’re still burning up. There’s an unquenchable ache in your chest now, all of the yearning from the past week boiling over into this.

“What…” Din’s modulated voice sounds out as he walks right up to the window. The helmet cautiously turns to look over each of his shoulders, making sure there’s no one else around. “What are you doing?”

“Take off the helmet.”

“Why?”

Smoothing a palm over the sensitive skin of your tummy, you lean back and look up, waiting. He doesn’t move. “I want to see your face when you look at me,” you explain. “Please.”

_Hissss._

Your breath catches at the sound. Even though it’s only been minutes after the Mandalorian excused himself, you almost gasp when you see his face and his impassive expression. When you view him like this, somewhat faraway but still tenderly familiar, it’s easy to imagine him the way you’re supposed to: a handsome stranger passing through town.

Din rests his helmet down on the windowsill. It’s a shame he can’t cross the threshold, but you’ll have your fun with this restriction. “What are you doing?” He repeats his question, his dark eyes roaming across your body. The way he studies you makes you shy; you don’t have to fake that.

“Don’t talk too loudly.” You prop your legs up on the bed, bending your knees. “I want to show you.”

“What do you mean?” His chest freezes when you open your legs, but the skirt falls between your thighs, shielding everything from his eyes. You notice that his gaze dips for a moment, but then it locks onto your face with a stubborn intensity, refusing to move below your waist.

You start lifting your skirt. “I want to show you how much I enjoy thinking of you.” You bite your lip, looking down at yourself as your panties come into view. They’re a light grey, plain, and far from your sexiest pair; that doesn’t matter though, because you can clearly see the patch of wet where you’ve soaked through the material.

“I-Is this what you do?” Din makes a frustrated sound at the back of his throat. He looks down at the ground, avoiding you. You like that he’s not strong enough to leave. “Is this what you do every night?”

You shake your head. “No. Not since the lake.”

“No?”

“What about you?”

His long silence is all the response you need.

“I’ve been trying to be good,” you say. You ghost your fingers over the wet material, breathing out. “Unlike you. But I can’t help it now.”

“ _Kriffing—_ ” Din lowers the volume of his voice drastically after his first word, as if he’s only just remembered where he is. He stares back at your face and places a hand on top his helmet, anchoring himself. After a few moments the hand clenches tightly into a fist. “Are you trying to—”

You gift him a tiny moan. “Please,” you whisper. It feels so fucking _good_ to touch yourself after almost a week, after all his teasing. “Look at me.”

 _Finally—_ Din’s eyes drop, moving down between your legs immediately. His lips part and he exhales audibly as he watches the movement of your hand. You can see the moment when the lust takes ahold of him, racking through his body: his gaze turns to steel, his jaw locking and pupils dilating as he drinks in the sight of your wet panties. But he still can’t cross the threshold. It’s wonderful. You quite like that feral look in his eyes.

He bites his thumb, staying silent, deliberating what to say next. “Do you like making yourself feeling good this way?”

“It’s not enough,” you admit. It’s true. After months of being with him, of being tangled with the essence of him day in and day out—it’s not enough. Your torso twitches as you tease yourself through the soaked fabric. “You would be better.”

 _“Mhmm_ ,” he agrees. His eyes latch lazily back onto yours. “Show me.”

You want him to see. Blushing, you slowly hook a finger into the crotch of your panties and pull it to one side. You’re pleased when Din’s mouth opens even further, forming into a gentle circle. “ _Maker,”_ he growls, his baritone scraping the bottom of his throat. “ _Fuck_ you look pretty like this.” Unexpectedly, he looks straight into your eyes then, his dark stare dropping to your pink lips and lower, right back to your aching pussy.

“I’m not really sure how to—” Your voice shakes with feigned insecurity. “—how would you—”

“Wet your fingers.” _How does he have this much power over you?_ He’s not even touching you; he’s not even close. Obediently you slip your fingers into your mouth, shyly slicking them with spit. “And touch yourself—” You bring your fingers back to your soaking cunt, trembling as you ghost over your clit. “—right _there.”_

You whimper as you start circling the swollen bud, the pleasure of it sharp and overwhelming after a week of restraint. “Yes. That feels…” Your whole body twitches, overtaken with the heat of the room—of the moment—and you’re so kriffing close to the edge already. “—it feels good. _D-Din._ ”

The broken whisper of his name seems to shatter the last of his resolve. The Mandalorian presses himself as close to the opening of the window as he can, and if you didn’t know better, you would think he was angry. “Pull down your shirt,” he demands roughly, his voice still impossibly low. “I want to see all of you.”

You tug at your neckline just enough to free your tits, chewing on your lip to keep from moaning too loudly. Ironically, the air hitting your bare chest feels suffocating, your nipples hardening. The impropriety of the situation—of the possibility of anyone seeing—makes your heart race, making you lightheaded with desire, his and yours. From those in the distance, it looks like the Mandalorian is just standing outside your window, holding a placid conversation with whomever’s in the hut. But to you… the warrior’s tall silhouette fills the frame, a broad figure punched out from the dimming late afternoon sky.

“You show this to other people?” All things considered, Mando is doing a good job keeping his expression under control. “To those other boys who want you?”

“N-No.” You shake your head shyly. “Of course not.”

“Spread yourself for me,” he says calmly, like he’s telling you about the weather. He lets out a small groan as you part the lips of your cunt, mumbling under his breath. _Pink,_ you think he says. _So pink._ “…fuck yourself with your finger.”

Dutifully, you slip a digit inside yourself, your flush deepening at the pressure of it. Your other hand pinches your nipples, and you stare at him as he watches you, noticing when his eyelids grow heavy. Your chest starts heaving as you work yourself closer and closer to your orgasm, your breaths coming louder as you edge yourself in front of him.

“Try two.”

“I—”

“Two,” he repeats, his baritone deepening even further.

After hesitating you follow his instructions, watching as his breath hitches at the sight. _This is it._ He’s losing his mind slowly, unraveling himself with his own words. This is a game of your own doing, you remember. _You wanted this._ “M-Mando, I-I’m going to cum.”

“Good.” The Mandalorian’s breathing is shaky now, quickening as time drags on. He brings a hand up to his face, his eyes darkening as he covers his mouth, latching his palm over his sharp jaw. He’s almost vibrating with the tension, and you can sense his unspent adrenaline, both from the game and from his fight. You can hear the mess you’re making on your own fingers as you thrust them further inside you, your body tensing, a delicious heat spreading in your pelvis—

“D-Din, p-please—”

—you bite down on your hand as you cum, your hips squirming through the power of your orgasm as you clench tightly around your fingers. You force your eyes open and watch the Mandalorian through it all, enjoying how he freezes as you fall apart. For a few moments Din doesn’t react at all, and you recognize that he’s trying to calm himself. His shoulders are hunched, his hands still clenched, one remaining on top of his helmet as he watches your body twitch, roiled by the aftershocks of pleasure.

“I want you inside me,” you tell him breathlessly, lowering your spine down onto the mattress. The orgasm didn’t bring you relief; instead it renders you dumb with desire. “I want you to be the first inside me.”

These choice words instill an urgency in the moment, charging the air with electricity. Din brings a hand up to his long fringe, pushing it out of his eyes and gripping it. He’s almost panting. You must look a mess, but he does too.

“I-I’m…” He’s at a loss for words as he blinks at you. “I—” He stops, then starts again, clearly in a daze. “I’ll be back.”

He leaves suddenly, tearing his helmet from its resting place and walking off to the side, off the path and into the forest. You stare confusedly at the space he’s left vacant, wondering where he’s going—

_Oh._

It takes you a while to find him. It’s darker now, the afternoon light fading as you search. The Mandalorian lumbered further into the thick of the forest than you thought necessary, and he’s already close when you find him.

He’s sits with his back pressed up against a tree trunk. His breaths come heavy as he strokes his thick cock, groaning into the warm air. He’s unbuckled his pants just enough to take care of himself, his other hand bunching his shirt further up his toned. And he’s talking.

 _“Just like that.”_ You catch snippets, words. “ _Take your time.”_ Din is mumbling, his voice low as he gazes down at himself. _“Faster.”_ The sudden jerk of his hips sends his head crashing back against the tree. Foreign words, jumbled and rough, tumble from his lips. _Mando’a._ You’ve never hear him speak it, but you’re drawn to it nevertheless, to how the round syllables melt off his tongue.

You move closer, a branch breaking underneath your foot. His head turns.

“Din—”

“Don’t,” he warns. Your heart pounds, the hair on the back of your neck prickling. You stop, watching as he resumes his stroking, your mouth watering as he lets out another moan. “Do you know how often I’ve had to do this?” His cock looks impossibly thick in his hands. Even though he’s sitting and you’re standing, everything about him is still so… big. “How often I’ve had to take care of myself? How hard it was not to push you against that counter and just fuck you?”

“You could have,” you whimper.

“No.” The hand on his cock stills, moving lower to cup his balls. “That wouldn’t be right.”

You move even closer, until you’re almost to him—

“Stop,” he growls. “Don’t.”

Helplessly, you drop to your knees so that you’re level with him. “Let me help you.” You repeat your words from earlier.

“No. I don’t think so.” He eyes you steadily, bringing his hand up to his lips and licking his fingers lightly.

“Din—” You watch greedily as he smears the spit around his throbbing, reddened tip, taking his sweet time. His torso twitches at the contact, his cock resting heavy against his abdomen, and Maker… _you want it in your mouth._

“No.” The forced distance lets you see his face more clearly, lets you truly witness how his expression evolves as he keeps stroking himself, bringing himself closer and closer to orgasm with every passing second. “The things you s-say,” he punches out, his chest rising and falling. “The things you say to me. I don’t think you know what you’re playing with.”

“Please.”

“I’m not a good man,” he tells you. “I’m not a good man for wanting you.”

You try to protest, but he’s stroking himself faster now. You’re whimpering, helpless to do anything but watch as he finally grips himself tight. Your eyes focus on only him as his shaft pulses, long and slow, shooting ropes of thick, white, cum all over his fist and down onto his tanned torso. It drips and he groans, letting the sheer hedonism of it tear through him, letting his abs quiver and his shoulders lock as he leans backwards. When it finally passes, you’re as breathless as him. You crawl slowly towards him, succumbing to the ache. You don’t want the game right now. You just want him.

There’s a flicker of understanding in his eyes when he nods, tearing his hand away from himself as you lean in for a single desperate kiss. You pull away, slowly taking his hand in yours and licking his knuckles—tasting him, making sure to catch every spare drop trickling down his skin.

He whispers into your ear, his voice hoarse. “Clean me up.”

You kiss your way down his torso, feeling how he shakes through the fabric of his shirt, moving slowly until your lips finally meet skin. You swirl your tongue, patiently laving it over every bit of his spend, tasting him, drinking him in, your thighs trembling under you as he watches with a blissed out expression fixed upon his face. By the time you’re finished, he’s halfway hard again.

“Can we?” You bite your lip.

“Not here.” He pinches your chin, bringing your face back to his. “Not right now.”

“But...”

“I know,” he says, kissing you. “It’s not the same without you.” He pauses, and you see him struggle to find his next words. “If… if this was real. Would you… would you still…” You wait. “Would you still let me?”

“Din.” A scolding tone finds it way into your voice.

“You don’t know the things I’ve done,” he breathes out. “I used to be different. Playing this game… it’s made me think about whether I—whether I—”

You suddenly realize what he’s been trying to say. _I’m not a good man._ You stop him from speaking with a kiss, short and sweet. “You’re a good man, Din Djarin.”

His eyes soften, blinking surprisedly at you. “I—”

“I would have been lucky to have you,” you continue. His entire body melts into you, relenting. “I used to be different too. We all did. Everyone in this galaxy… we’re always changing, shifting, following…” You run your fingers along his cheek. “I would have been lucky to have you,” you repeat. He nods, staring back into your eyes. “Now,” you say. “Can we please, _Maker,_ can we please, finally, let’s just—”

“Not here,” he interrupts. “We’re still playing, remember?”

“So can you sneak into my room tonight? Or I can sneak into yours.”

“Tomorrow,” he insists, holding you to his chest. “Tonight they’re holding that banquet… that feast in my honor.”

“ _Dank farrik_ ,” you swear. ‘Why’d you have to save the day again?”

“Because.” He smiles at you, brushing your hair back. “I have things to protect.”

* * *

“That Cat,” Doma says. Her eyes flatten into a squint. “Child, I think there’s something wrong.”

Din has his mouth full as he listens to her. They’re sitting by the fire as the village celebrates, and he eyes the running children warily, making sure that Grogu doesn’t wander too close to the flames. “What do you mean?”

“It’s been a while since things have been normal. I feel it, like poison dripping through the valley. A great darkness.” The old woman turns to him, shaking her head. “This planet… there is something amiss nowadays. A great divide splitting us all apart.” The fire crackles, spitting hot embers into the air. “This planet… it has always been rich with the Force.”

“The Force…” Din struggles to follow, recalling what little information Ashoka offered him.

“This planet. Before the Jedi abandoned it… Even then it was always a mystery.” The reflection of the fire dances in the old woman’s milky eyes. “All of us who live here, who survive, clinging to our homes… all of us can sense the Force in some capacity. But now I am at a loss, child. Something is amiss. And I don’t know what it is.”

All of this sounds awfully suspicious to Din, like magic or sorcery. And if Din hadn’t met the Child, he would have dismissed Doma’s anxiety as mere superstition. But after all that Din has witnessed, all that he’s seen… he knows now that there are phenomenons in this galaxy that cannot be explained. He strains for the right response, failing to find the right words as he studies the old woman’s troubled expression.

“Here I am, running my mouth again!” Doma suddenly laughs, patting Din on the pauldron. “You killed the Cat. All is well. All is well.”

Din doesn’t believe her, but nevertheless he takes another bite of roasted Manka Cat meat. “All is well,” he chews, nodding back to Doma. He sinks his teeth into another bite. Across the bonfire, Din can make out the Girl talking to Vero, a local carpenter. The Girl is drinking from a near-empty jug of spotchka, tilting her throat back until every last drop flows into her mouth. _Not one to waste._ Resentment pours into Din’s veins as he notices Vero’s eyes wandering downwards, towards the Girl’s breasts—

“I wanted to thank you.” A young woman about the Girl’s age steps in front of Din, her hands clutched at front of her skirt. “For today. For saving us. How will I ever repay you?”

Din looks up at her, trying to place her face. _The screaming woman._ “There’s no need.” He nods slowly in greeting.

“My name is Kyla.” The woman refuses to nod back. Instead she holds out her hand. Din takes it. “How are you finding the food?”

“It’s very good, thank you.” He’s still not used to interacting with people without his helmet. He feels uncertain and self-conscious. Awkward, even.

Kyla smiles kindly at him. “Now, the little green one is your son?”

As they talk, Kyla moves to the seat beside him and Doma adds to the conversation from time to time, sharing tidbits of juicy information about the various children. By the time the talk dwindles and the hour is late, Din has an intricate knowledge of which child is bad’ and hates to learn; he knows who’s deemed promising and who’s deemed good. His heart constricts thinking about the foundlings in the covert and the hollow husks of beskar armor that lay in pile beneath in Nevarro. He wonders where they are now, the other Mandalorians. The distraction pulls him away from the crowd and makes him long for some solitude. He finds himself wandering away, finally excusing himself. There is a quiet spot at the edge of the celebration where he can stand, shrouded in shadow, leaning against a tree.

He observes everything. The Kid is happy. Din watches the little thing totter from friend to friend, his large black eyes blown wide in wonderment. And the Girl… the Girl is walking towards Din, the empty jug of spotchka swinging in her hand.

“Hi,” he says, right before she reaches him. He crosses his arms over his chest.

She’s wobbly on her feet. She steadies herself against the bark beside him. Din knows she thinks she’s being subtle, but in her drunkeness she’s anything but. She wants his attention.

“Hi,” she says casually. “How was talking to the pretty woman?”

“You’re drunk.”

“I know.” The Girl leans down, swaying as she sets the jug down in the dirt. “Do you think she’s prettier than me?”

“I didn’t notice if she was pretty.” Din tries not to laugh. “And you’re drunk.”

“And you enjoyed talking to her.”

“Did I?” His mouth curls into a smile.

“She definitely enjoyed talking to you,” the Girl asserts. “She was definitely flirting.”

“Was she?”

“Stop being annoying.” The Girl crosses her arms too. “You know it.”

“I know that she came over to thank me.” He pauses. “And that she was glad her husband was safe too.”

There is a short silence, and then the Girl laughs.

“Oh,” the Girl breathes out.

 _Cute,_ Din thinks. “What are you doing here anyways?”

“No reason.” The Girl looks away. “What’s the language you were speaking today? In the forest? Mando’a?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve never heard it before.”

“Do you know another Mandalorian?”

“No.”

“Well…”

“I like the sound of it,” the Girl huffs out. “It’s nice.”

“Bic cuyir.” _I know._

Her brow furrows. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing important.” He clocks how she’s left slightly breathless by his sentence. “You like when I speak it,” he accuses.

“No.”

“You do.” He leans closer to her. “I think you like it when you don’t understand me.” He looks her right in the eyes. “Mesh’la.”

“No.” She blushes furiously.

Their conversation dies into silence.

“Din?” She’s staring at him with those bright eyes again.

“Yes?”

“Fuck me.”

He stares back. She looks delicious in that dress. She’s burning in his blood and she doesn’t even know it. “Not tonight,” he says.

“I want you to fuck me right here.”

“No. You’re drunk.”

“Is that the only reason?”

He looks down, letting his eyes linger on her, on every part of her, letting her marinate in his silence. “Yes,” he finally says.

“But—”

He finally pushes away from the tree, pinching her chin for a moment. “Your first time should be special.” She’s silent as she processes his words. “See you tomorrow, Mesh’la.”

She frowns. “See you…”

Din laughs as he makes his way back to the cabin. _Mesh’la._ He wonders how long that’ll keep her up.

* * *

_Mesh’la._ You toss and turn in your bed, the heat sticking to your skin. _Mesh’la._ What does it mean?

You scowl at the ceiling.

_Mesh’la._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> etchedbox.tumblr.com
> 
> Re-edited the chap with minor changes! Next update will come 4/4 so it'll be a while. Hopefully everybody can take deep breaths til then.
> 
> See you tomorrow, Mesh'la.


End file.
